


Welcome to Skyrim

by Gradual_Apostate



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chaos Theory, Dark Humor, Diary/Journal, Food Porn, Gen, Imprisonment, Language Barrier, Modern Girl in Skyrim, Moral Dilemmas, Murder and Mayhem, Torture, all the cuss words, not a self-insert, vicious academia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 39
Words: 90,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24061576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gradual_Apostate/pseuds/Gradual_Apostate
Summary: Esme thought things couldn’t get much worse when she lost her job. Then she was sucked into a mirror and sent to Skyrim. This is her journal.
Comments: 86
Kudos: 108





	1. Lists and Lock-picking

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a thought experiment about surviving a zombie apocalypse with only the crap in my work desk drawers and it just sort of morphed into this. I’ve often wondered about how a Modern (insert your preferred pronoun here) would fare in Skyrim, so I thought I’d give it a whirl. This is my first fan fic and I am sans Beta, so constructive criticism is appreciated, but please be civil.

Property of: Esme Victoria Winters

Useful Things:

*This notebook, cell phone (72% battery, no signal duh), pocket knife, keys (weaponize, Mace on keychain), stapler and staple remover (weaponize?), Zippo lighter, 16 rubber bands assorted sizes, 8 paperclips assorted sizes, 4 thumb tacks, 2 hair ties, 1 bottle ibuprofen (almost full), tiger balm (half full), toiletry bag: travel toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, hair brush, tweezers, nail clippers, 3 pads, deodorant, and 2 cleansing cloths. 1 inch of post-it notes, 1 mechanical pencil with extra lead in the barrel, 1 blue ballpoint pen, 2 black Precise pens, 1 black Sharpie, 1 pink highlighter, 2 take-out pairs of chopsticks, and 3 paperback books (Dune, Wuthering Heights & Vampire Beat.)

Food:  
2 granola bars, 1 pack kimchee Ramen, 3 packets of orange spice tea, 2 packets of earl grey, 1 packet ketchup, 4 packets hot sauce, 2 packets soy sauce, 7 pieces spearmint gum, & 6 lemon cough drops (totally a food)

Worries:  
Dehydration takes about 7 days max? Hypothermia. Foreign diseases. GETTING HOME.

Pelagius Wing: Blue Palace.

There’s nowhere else this could possibly be. I’ve wracked my brain over it and it’s the only place that fits. It shouldn’t, but it does. Either that or I’m having a psychotic break.

Shitty day started off with getting fired from my shitty job. That should have been the worst part, I had to clear out my desk and turn my badge over to Judith, the smug bitch. “Cut backs” my ass, she’s been after me since day one. I visited the anthropology museum on campus because that’s what I always do when I want to cheer myself up and fell through a mirror. Or a gateway disguised as a mirror, I’m not sure how any of this works. Landed in a forest? Or something like a forest, met a crazy man at a dinner table for about five minutes, who then shoved me into a portal or wormhole maybe? Fell out of another mirror hidden behind a painting (my exit split the canvas, kind of still feel bad about that, I might have ruined a priceless piece of art). I tried to reactivate the mirror, but nothing worked. Apparently magic mirrors do not respond to strings of cuss words.

I’m going to try to keep a log of all of this. Even if I never get home and no one but me can read this it will make me feel better to know there is some sort of record. Because none of this should be happening. I should not have fallen through a mirror (that thing has been there for decades! It’s a fixture of the college museum and never, not once, did I hear a spooky campus story about it glowing or sucking people into it! WTF??) into a fictional game world. For that matter what possible connection could there be between Tamriel and a big ass mirror that was supposed to date from the 18th century?? And this place should not feel as real as it does. And Sheogorath pulling me into this for his amusement or whatever should not make sense because he should not be real!! I never played Oblivion, but I thought I read somewhere that this Sheogorath is actually the player’s character from that game, remade or tricked into becoming the new god of madness. But I’ll be damned if I know what that means for me, just putting it down so I remember later. Other Daedra could be involved. That means that there are demon gods here who all want something from me. Probably my tasty soul.

Took some time getting out of the room, the door hinges were almost rusted closed. Dark, dirty, no one has cleaned in here for a long time. Made it down to the lowest level, only to find the hallway boarded up. Dry-rot made the wood easier to break, but the candlestick I used as a fire-axe is toast. I’m squatting in the main room now, near the only exit. The door is locked. I can see through the keyhole. Guards are posted in the hall. There is a little alcove to the right, but they will definitely see me if I try to get any further than that. Waiting for shift change. They must have a rotation, right? Found old candles, they stink but the wicks are dry enough to burn. This area is slightly cleaner than the rest of the wing. Used for storage? There are barrels, mostly full of potatoes, salt, and bottles of booze. One smells like fish and vomit. Avoiding that barrel. Lit a fire in the hearth with some of the broken wood from the hallway, cooking potatoes in the coals. It will be a while, so I’ve taken stock of what I have to work with. I should thank Judith for firing me or I wouldn’t have all this crap I’d been hoarding at my desk for so long!!! But also fuck that ho, if she hadn’t fired me I wouldn’t have been in the museum in the first place. 

Lists are so great, I feel calmer. Pro-conned pounding on the door and calling for help. 

Pro: fastest way to get the hell out of here. 

Con: guards might A) Stab first, ask questions later. B) throw me in a dungeon, where stabbing might also happen. C) toss me out on my ass and ban me from ever setting foot in the building again. Since I need to get back to the mirror at some point that’s the best and worst-case scenario. FML.

I could claim that I was magicked here by a Daedric prince, but that might just get me labeled as a crazy person, or a Daedra-worshipper, which I think is generally frowned on? It couldn’t have been anyone other than Sheogorath who shoved me through the portal. Just like the game, an old man with cataract eyes and a motley outfit. Always liked his character (ha fucking ha) now I kind of want to deck him. I tried asking questions, but his answers were cryptic, of course. 

Something like: “You’re here because that’s what happened, unless it doesn’t, but that’s not important yet! Time to stop talking now!!” and he cheerfully pushed me backwards into a swirling purple vortex.

If I see him again after all the panics have worn off, I’ll tell him to go to hell. Or Oblivion. But more likely I’ll keep my damn mouth shut because doesn’t he turn someone into a cheese wheel in one of the games? I might be misremembering but it sounds like something he would do.

I need that mirror, since it's the only way I know into and presumably out of this world. It’s not going anywhere, and I think that I can get back to it as long as I don’t do anything to piss off the locals. The hard part will be figuring out how to activate the damn thing. There’s got to be a trick to it, a magic trigger or something, I just have to figure it out. Or get Sheogorath to take pity on me, lol.

Day 2

I managed to pick the lock on the door to the Pelagius wing with a couple of my heftiest paperclips when I was sure the guard was rotating and the coast was clear, only to be immediately spotted by a maid. She didn't yell or scream at me or call the guard. She looked kind of sympathetic, like I'm not the only person this has happened to, which is a frightening piece of info I'm not ready to process. I think I might be in shock to a degree but writing helps. 

She took my arm and led me through the kitchens to what looked like a storeroom. She didn't say a word to me, just rummaged through a bin of stuff like a lost and found box, pulled out an armful of over-sized clothes, threw a cloak over me and shoved me out of a side door into the gardens in the front of the Palace. Click goes the lock behind me. And I was on my own in the cold, dark, now very real world. That was two days ago. I've been wandering the streets since, trying to get my bearings, and failing. The language spoken here sounds Scandinavian or Swedish to me, but what do I know? Nothing. I know nothing. I'm going to die here, one way or another, and I don't even know why! Fuck this so hard.


	2. A Modern Hobo in Solitude

Day 3

Solitude is pretty, I’ll give it that. The breeze at night is cold as fuck, but in the peak hours when the sun is shining it’s not that bad. My senses are being assaulted by good and bad smells coming from all directions and I’m scared to drink the water. I remember all sorts of diseases mentioned in the game. I think you can only get some from animal bites, but water-borne bacteria are no joke and I have no reason to assume that I have natural immunities to any of the pathogens here. Last thing I need right now is the Skyrim version of Montezuma's Revenge. 

Chewing gum to stay hydrated. Living on granola bars and whatever veg I can find. There really are storage barrels full of apples and cabbages all over the place, but I have no idea if they belong to anyone, so I’m being careful not to get caught pilfering. The apples are hard and sour. I can’t yet bring myself to eat raw potato even though they also seem to be abundant. Maybe this is poor people food?

Vampire Beat has been designated as toilet paper (as it should be) because they don’t use any here and I just can’t handle that. *Note to self: do not shake anyone’s hands!! Latrines for public use are near the catacomb entrance, which must have been a practical decision because it seems disrespectful. At least whoever designed this city thought about that sort of thing, or I’d be even more uncomfortable than I already am. Why didn’t I keep hand sanitizer in my desk?

I wandered up to the gates the first night, then wandered back down when the guards kept looking at me funny. At least I think they were. It’s hard to tell with the helmets. With the cloak over my bag and the over-sized borrowed clothes over my own I probably look like a lumpy, hunchbacked weirdo. 

During the day you can walk the walls, and no one seems to care. No one wants to stay up there though, and I figured out why real quick. The wind kicks up as soon as you clear the wall and I swear my eyebrows froze before I could get back down to the Market where it’s warmer. I won’t pretend like I didn’t think about jumping off those walls. Would that reset everything? If I just jumped down and hit the rocks? IDK. I’m not ready to find out.

I tried the Temple, thinking there might be some sort of religious charity support for homeless foreigners. Ha. No. They’ll let me sit on the benches, but sleeping there, or getting any kind of food assistance, isn’t going to happen.

Leaving the city would be a death sentence. I have zero survival skills suited for this environment, nowhere to go, and no real supplies or currency. I also can’t speak the language, which is a serious problem. The way I figure it the College is my best bet for survival. Oh, the irony. Six credits away from my Master’s degree and my fate will be decided by a bunch of Liberal Arts majors. 

Day 6

I have never been this tired. Everything hurts. I’ve been doing chores around the college, trying to show them that I want to help out. I have to convince the bards to take me in, without any demonstrable set of skills it’s either that or joining the priesthood and…yeah no. 

Sleeping in the gardens and little niches around town, can’t relax for long. My back is killing me. I would literally kill for a fresh pair of underpants and a cheeseburger right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who may not be familiar Vampire Beat is, quite possibly, the worst vampire novel ever written. But it's so bad it's funny, like slap your knee, "what the hell am I even reading?" funny, so if you like that sort of thing you can probably find a copy online. The cover art alone is truly amazing.


	3. What Day Is It?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Esme settles into her new normal.

Day 14

If I never have to choke down another plain baked potato til the end of my days, I'll die happy. Two weeks here and I've basically survived on sympathy and potatoes. It took longer than I expected to get into the Bard's College, mostly because no one can understand a word I'm saying and vice versa. There was no real initiation or anything in the game, just the Olaf quest I think, but apparently it's slightly more involved IRL than just showing up and grabbing a lute. I never cared much for the bards in the game to be honest. The quests were kind of meh. But in reality (if that is what this is), these guys are my best chance for survival. I need to learn how to speak this language, I need to learn to read and write; I have to figure out how to make coin so I'm not living on charity like an inter-dimensional hobo. So, I just started hanging around, helping the maid carry water and scrub the steps. Eventually the cook, Bendt, showed me to a bedroll in the basement and I intend to sleep there til someone kicks me out. 

It took about a week to figure out what's expected of me and how things work here. Since I have no language skills, or musical skills, I earn my keep by helping in the kitchens, chopping wood, and cleaning the common rooms. It's more physical activity than I've done in years, so as I write every muscle in my body is twitching in pain. But I'll get through this, because I have to. I've got a dry place to sleep and food, so I have no room to complain. Well, okay I could complain. My bedroll is made of leather treated with what smells like lye to keep bugs away, the only padding is the little bit of matted down fur inside. I think it’s cow? Skeevers are a MILLION times nastier than rats, with fleas that probably carry plague, there’s constant noise coming from upstairs, and bathing without running water is a rustic nightmare. But complaining doesn't do any good. I mean no one understands me anyway, so I've decided to soldier the fuck on. 

I've picked up a few words, so my communication skills have gone from “none at all” to “nouns and pointing.” It's a start. The students are nice to me for the most part, probably because I have no talent and they don't see me as a threat. Even with the language barrier the competitiveness between apprentices is obvious. But I am not a bard. I'm here to be grateful and scrub the floors. At least this gives me a chance to think things over, while I'm mindlessly cleaning. I go over what I remember from the game and then write down everything I can later before Alda takes the communal candle away at bedtime. The butterfly effect not withstanding I should at least get the bullet points down before my memory starts to faulter. As it is I know I have gaps and have probably already exhausted what I can remember without memory-jogging triggers. Hopefully that won’t cost me anything I can’t grow back. 

Day 18

I would give my left kidney for some moisturizer right now. My skin is so dry I could probably sand down a table with just my elbows. I've been wearing the same ratty dress and cloak the palace maid gave me this whole time, so somehow I'm going to need to get a new set of clothes if only so I can wash what I've got. I am ripe! Wearing my normal stuff is out of the question, it would be way too conspicuous. All of my things from home are shoved in my backpack, which is wrapped in a sack and hidden in a cubby in the back of the pantry. I'm too paranoid about being found with anything unusual, so all I carry with me day to day is a small iron knife Bendt gave me and a leather belt with some pouches, which I rummaged from a bin of discarded odds and ends. Just like the game this world is full of stuff...but most of it isn't good stuff. 

Day 24

Viarmo is kind of a dick. Head of the college, yeah, but he is not really interested in being in charge. He wants to be left alone with his verses. Our first interaction that didn't involve me carrying the chamber pot out of his room (gross) was three days ago, when I tried to ask for help getting clothes. His irritation transcended the language barrier. I’m pretty sure he thought I was asking for money. Really, I just wanted to know if there was some sort of barter system I could take advantage of, but clearly he was not the person to ask. He just got more and more frustrated with my extremely limited vocabulary. He shouted me back to the kitchen in fact. Bendt handed me a cup of mead and went back to breaking down a side of beef without a word. I guess I’m on Viarmo's shit list now. He glares and huffs when he sees me, but he hasn't kicked me out yet so...I'm just going to stay the course.

On a brighter note yesterday one of the other apprentices, Lissette, grabbed my hand while I was taking a moment to pop my back (blargh! I don't know how many more buckets of water I can haul up those damned stairs!) and pulled me out into the city. I spent most of my time in and around the college these last few weeks, so the change was nice. She practically dragged me all the way to the Winking Skeever (btw the city is WAY bigger than the game. The Inn is near the main gates and it took us a good 20 minutes of sprinting to get there). By the time we arrived I was gasping like a half dead fish. Lissette immediately pushed me down into a chair and put a small drum on my lap. She pounded out a simple beat and then had me pick it up. When she was satisfied that I could act as backup she started singing. I expected the songs to just be the ones from the game, but no. She kept up a quick, steady pace and sang with raunchy swagger that made the lunch crowd laugh and clap. I have a feeling that she was singing some bawdy stuff. Sex sells no matter what universe you’re in I guess. At the end of the set she gathered her tips and pressed two gold coins into my palm with a smile. My cut, under the table. I couldn't hold back my grin. I think I just made a friend.

Day 31?

I'm having a hard time keeping track of the days. Things have picked up since I first arrived. I'm improving on my language skills every day, though I'm sure I still sound like a toddler. Fjori and Helgi have decided to adopt me, sort of. They're both junior apprentices and they both seem to think that I'm hilarious. It's my confused face, it cracks them up. Along with my other housekeeping duties I'm periodically whisked away (when Viarmo isn't looking) to play drum backup for them or to accompany them to the market (so I can carry heavy things.) I was finally able to buy a second dress and a pair of shoes (used of course.) I need boots, but that is going to have to wait til I earn more money. There are shops in Solitude you don't see in the game, which shouldn’t come as a surprise. Like the boot guy. There's a boot guy! And a haberdashery, a carpenter's guild, a lady who just makes baskets out of reeds and horsehair; there’s a lot going on. It's almost like home, if I squint, tilt my head sideways, and cover my ears anyway.

Day 38

I've taken to marking the days in chalk on the wall by my bed so I can keep track better. I've settled into a routine and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. Comforting, but not necessarily good.


	4. Learning Curve

Day 45

I’ve avoided Viarmo since what I’ve dubbed the Charity Incident, which has been working like gangbusters until this morning, when Alda the housekeeper grabbed my hand and pushed me toward the door to his room. Normally that means they want me to clean something, so I didn’t think much of it. When I knocked, he opened the door for me, (weird he usually just barks from his desk) then immediately closed the door behind me when I stepped in (also weird.) 

I waited for him to point at whatever he wanted me to take care of, but he just stood there, looking at me with those creepy bright green eyes. I always liked playing as an elf in fantasy games, but this variety up close and personal have an intimidating, alien thing going that really freaked me out at first. I do not want to be racist to anyone here, but when someone with unnaturally sharp bone structure and a neon stare locks eyes with you and doesn’t say shit, well, how are you supposed to react? 

I swear he didn’t move, didn’t even blink, for a full minute. Finally, I tried to get the ball rolling, I pointed to the empty fireplace and asked “wood?” because that’s a word I know now. I have never seen someone so yellow turn so red! He started stammering so fast I couldn’t make out any of it, then suddenly pushed a pile of ratty books into my hands with blank paper and some charcoal balanced on top and shoved me out into the hall. Helgi was leaning against the wall, observing my dumbfoundedness with an expression of sheer joy. 

I asked her what I did, well more precisely I said, “what I do?” because I haven’t gotten the hang of verbs yet. She walked over and examined the titles of the books he gave me. Then she gave me a big shit-eating grin and said something about learning and practice. I think he was trying to say sorry for being a dick to me by giving me a bunch of primers to work on. Most awkward apology ever. 

Day 48

Helgi and some of the other students have been helping me get through the stack of books Viarmo gave me. We started with an Imperial primer, probably something they give to little children because Fjori kept giggling as I stumbled through it. Not everyone in Skyrim is literate, but of course all Bards must be, or they would never get through the endless lectures on verse and literary history. That seems to equate that most Bards come from either affluent families, or families that already have a history with one of the colleges, so they have a leg up. 

I’m going to get fluent and I’m going to learn to read dammit! Not knowing what people are saying is frustrating as hell; it’s way too much for my ego to take. I was an honors student back home! A Bonafede nerd who read everything in advance and had a 3.95 GPA (math thou art my eternal enemy). Now I wash stew pots while conjugating verbs in a language I didn’t even know existed six weeks ago.

I’ve gotten to know the people here better and just talking has been helpful. Their language is infuriatingly difficult to pronounce. Lots of rolling R’s and back to back consonants. Making friends was my worst skill back home, but here there are no distractions. No phones, no internet, just books and gossip. And me now. I’ve become a form of entertainment to some of the other students, to others I’m a verbal practice dummy. More than once I’ve caught some of the apprentices refer to me as a “Breton mut” presumably because they can’t figure out where I’m from and I play dumb when they ask. 

Of course, my whole stint here I’ve really had to watch my resting-bitch-face, especially at the Inn. Last thing I need is to accidentally insult a room full of giant, hulking psychos full of booze and testosterone. I never appreciated before how built Nords really are, I only played as one once. Even Lissette could probably snap my neck like a stale Cheeto. At least while I’m working in the kitchen I can relax. Bendt doesn’t care if I scowl. 

Speaking of, Bendt is by far my favorite person here. He comes off as a grumpy cuss, kinda reminds me of Grandpa Jay without the camo and chaw. I don’t think anyone else would have taken me in. I don’t even know if he got permission from Viarmo to do that, come to think of it. He must have? He goes out of his way to teach me things when I’m in the kitchen instead of shooing me away like the apprentices looking for snacks. I can gut a salmon like a pro now.

Second favorite person in Solitude is Evette San. She drops by now and then to see Bendt and it’s clear that they know each other well. Really well. If I had to hazard a guess, and I’m gonna, they’re seeing each other and have been for a while. It’s sweet in a down-played Remains of the Day kind of way. They’re both widowed, so it’s not like they’re doing anything wrong, but they don’t broadcast their relationship either, which probably just means they don’t want any drama. Can’t blame them. The three of us had a nice evening drinking Evette’s spiced wine in the kitchen and playing a card game I still don’t understand. 

“Spiced” btw is nothing like back home. When I think of something “spiced” we’re talking cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, anise; that ubiquitous pumpkin latte kind of flavor. I have no idea what she puts in that wine, but it is none of those things. I think there are chili peppers in it. Not bad, but not what I was expecting. While I’m on the subject of food, elves ear turns out to be a kind of sage (knew it!) and frost miriam is a cross between parsley and cilantro. Bread is bread, but much grittier because of the stone mills they use here (I’m going to have to be careful of my teeth) and the cheese is almost as gamey as the meat. I find myself gravitating towards vegetable dishes, which is a sentence I never thought I’d put to paper…

Inge Six Fingers, the head lute instructor, is a crusty old bitch, but like Bendt she’s got a squishy side. She’s been doing this for decades now and I get the impression that she’s worried about what will happen to her when she gets too old to play. I’ve noticed how she tries to hide how painful her hands are, but the swollen joints are a dead giveaway. She’s probably got some serious arthritis and I’ll bet it hurts like hell. I don’t want to offer her any of my precious ibuprofen because A) I’ve only got so many and I’m just waiting for one of my migraines to hit and B) too many questions will come up about where I got them and so on. I know aspirin originally developed from plants like willow bark and clover, but I have no idea if those plants exist in the same form here or how to process them. There’s probably a local remedy people use, or ingredients that could be imported? But then I’d have to pay for that and figure out how to make remedies out of the ingredients. Ugh. I’ve got sixty thousand dollars’ worth of 21st century education racked up and so far, none of it has been useful here. I’ll find a way to help her. Maybe topical capsaicin? Do they have jalapenos in Cyrodiil? 

Aia is the only one I don’t like. She’s vindictive, arrogant, and snide. Her nose is stuck so far up in the air I’m surprised she doesn’t bump into things when she walks. 

Jorn has a plan, I’ll give him that. He wants to learn enough to join the Imperial Army as a drummer. That’s literally all he talks about. He doesn’t care about any other subjects, and it makes him incredibly boring. A dude who looks like an extra straight out of Mad Max, complete with war paint…is boring.

Ildi isn’t liked, but I have no idea why. I like her. She’s a sweet girl, not amazingly talented or anything, but not awful either. I still don’t get it and I don’t trust my barely budding language skills to ask anyone.

Giraud the history teacher set my gaydar off the moment we met. He’s been in a relationship with, of all people, the town executioner, for years apparently. It’s not a secret either, which is refreshing. With all the awful things that go on here like racism, inbreeding (yep), and questionable hygiene practices at least Skyrim isn’t mired in puritanical nonsense when it comes to sexuality.

Day 57

I’m getting better at the language. I can follow along with conversations a bit, anyway. What comes with that is picking up news and gossip. While at the Skeever doing my normal back up thing for Lisette yesterday I overheard a table of mercenaries talking about the civil war. I’d honestly forgotten about it what with all my focus being on not ending up dead in a gutter all this time. The Stormcloaks are fortifying their positions to the east. Since Torygg is still alive I know that Ulfric will eventually ride into Solitude to challenge him, but when? I have no idea where in the timeline I am in relation to Helgen and the beginning of the game. Months? Days? I’m learning the names of the months and eras, but since I don’t remember when Skyrim starts it doesn’t do me any good. Why wasn’t I born with a photographic memory? This also makes me wonder about the Dragonborn. Is it going to be someone from this world operating under their own agency, or just an avatar fulfilling the will of an unknown player? Either way, whatever decisions that person makes will determine the future of Nirn, if it has one. I’m staying as far from all of that as I can. If I can just continue to not draw attention to myself and change as little as possible, the main events of the game can unfold, and the big DB can save the world from Alduin. Or fail and we all die horribly.

Day 58

I’ve gotten fond of mead, since it’s the beverage served here that tastes the least like fermented donkey piss, but my insistence on only drinking enough to not be thirsty continues to confuse the Nords. I was never a big drinker before, and when I did it was mostly sangria and the occasional tequila shot. The liquor here is thick, strong, and generally kind of gross.

Despite getting regular meals I think I am still losing weight. Back home I’d be ecstatic. Here I worry that it’s too fast to be healthy. At least Bendt is not opposed to vegetables, in fact the man is obsessed with getting “exotic” ingredients and whenever a trading ship comes in he’s actually paid a dock hand to tell him about it so he can get first dibs on the good stuff. Bendt, the palace cook, and the cook at the Winking Skeever have an ongoing rivalry over who gets the best imports first. The palace cook has more resources, the cook at the Skeever has more friends. Bendt has Evette. 

I played along when he sent me to the Market this morning to fetch as many anchovies and capers as possible before they sold out. Yep. Little salty fish and little salty…berries? I think that’s what a caper is anyway. (I have no clue why there’s such a high demand for preserved and fermented food stuffs when we literally live next to the sea and can get fresh stuff any time.) 

I ended up having to elbow my way to the stall, only to get back-handed by one of the palace runners. I managed to get the goods, but I returned with a bloody nose and a black eye. Bendt mumbled something about it being good for me, toughen it out, and all that, but I also got a boiled cream treat after supper. Everyone always talks about sweet rolls, but those boiled things are amazing. It’s like a honey-glazed bagel with custard in the middle. I only wish I had a cup of coffee to go with it (OMG I miss coffee!). Aaand I’ve turned this journal entry into a testament on how obsessed with food I am. Way to go, Ez, future generations will marvel at your ability to fight over fish. 

Day 59

I passed Viarmo in the hall and he grabbed my elbow. He’s never touched me before, except that push out of his room that one time. I guess my shiner must be pretty noticeable, because he looked at it with what I can only describe as confused horror. He dragged me to the kitchen and demanded to know what happened and who had injured me. Bendt took it in stride. I swear nothing ruffles that old buzzard. He explained that I was smacked around while running errands and it was no one’s fault but my own for not ducking in time. I still struggle understanding some words, especially when people are talking too fast, so I’m not 100% sure what Viarmo was going on about after that. It was clear he was upset. After he stormed back upstairs, I asked Bendt, but he only huffed and said “elf nonsense” as if that clears it up. I’m not sure if Viarmo was pissed off about Bendt’s blasé attitude, or the injury itself. Maybe both?


	5. Still in Solitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning** vague mention of menstruation and some unwanted physical contact. Also napping.

Day 60

I’m going to have to be careful about who sees me writing in this journal. It was stupid to hide it in my bedroll. I caught Aia riffling through it when I returned to the dormitory to sneak some ibuprofen (periods suck. And holy shit if the lack of pain killers wasn’t bad enough, they use tundra cotton and WOOL!) 

While I know she couldn’t read the entries, the fact that she was looking through my things set me off royally. I cursed her out in English until she retreated, no doubt to tell whoever will listen that Esme the lowly chamber pot cleaner is a violent lunatic. My chief concern is that she saw a notebook full of bleached, machine-milled paper in the possession of a foreigner with limited language skills and no known past. I’d be suspicious as hell. And whatever reason she was snooping she could very well report me as some sort of spy. I certainly don’t have the clout or the verbal skills to defend myself if she does. Fuck. New plan, hiding all my stuff deep in the cellar til further notice. 

Day 79

I’ve pulled this journal out after so long because Aia is gone. She’s off to Riften with some of the other senior students and most of the teachers on some sort of tour. That leaves me, Bendt, Alda, Inge, and a handful of junior apprentices, who all skipped out into the courtyard to rehearse in the sunshine this morning. I didn’t realize how I had gotten used to the constant sound of practicing from upstairs until it was gone. Now there are no lutes, no scales, or morning warm-ups; it’s eerie. 

Man, drudgery sure does build muscle. I keep telling myself that I’m leveling up doing all these damn chores and back-breaking labor. I mean let’s be real, if I set foot outside of Solitude without at least some preparation I’m going to die in two seconds. Probably will anyway. If I had to put a number on it I’d say I’m a level…3 at best. I do feel stronger. I don’t get as winded going up and down the stairs now. It still sucks and I’m not going to stop being “fluffy” for a long while yet and I’m fine with that! I like my curves; I don’t care if I look like a horker to the general populace of Skyrim. I want to recognize myself when I go home. 

Bendt made a radish salad for lunch with goat cheese dressing and little toasted seeds on top that was so normal I almost cried into my bowl. He even let me put together dinner today, since there are so few people to feed. I sharpened and soaked some skewers and made venison kabob. It was a huge hit. I put together pretty much the same sort of marinade mom used to make when dad brought home a buck: salt, sugar, garlic, and onion suspended in a little oil. The cleanup was horrific though. I miss tin foil so much! I was tempted to use the soy sauce packets hidden in my bag but decided against it. I can’t hoard them forever, but Bendt would ask where they came from. Too risky. Not that anyone so far has been particularly interested in where I come from. Most questions I’ve been able to play off as either not understanding, or I’ll just give a very vague answer like “west” then let them make up their own minds from there. Eventually I’ll have to come up with a more comprehensive backstory. I can tell that my physiognomy confuses some people, but no one has been rude enough to come out and demand that I categorize myself. Maybe I can pass for a half Breton half Nord with a glandular disorder. 

Day 80

It’s quiet and I have the basement dormitory to myself while the students are taking advantage of the empty practice rooms upstairs (it's raining today). I’ve graduated from a bedroll to an actual bed. It’s just a straw mattress covered in a musty bear pelt, but it beats sleeping on the floor. The downtime feels like an amazing luxury. I might even take a nap in the middle of the day!

***Napping was awesome but messed up my sleep schedule. Woke up late (time is hard to tell; I think it was a little bit after midnight?) and decided to make myself a snack. That package of spicy Raman noodles in my bag has been calling me for weeks. There was a kettle of boiled water set aside for tea anyway (Bendt has a cold) so I mixed them up with an egg and some chopped leaks (YUM). I managed to bury the packaging down into the kitchen coals just before I was caught. I expected Bendt to wander in and growl at me, but it was Inge. I put on my best friendly face and annunciated as carefully as I could “Bendt is sick, do you want me to make you something?” I’m pretty sure I got the words right, too. 

She looked suspiciously at my bowl before waving me off and reaching for the kettle herself. They either don’t have black tea here, or it’s too expensive to import. Tea is medicinal mostly, the sort of thing your granny makes when you have a tummy ache. I watched the girl at the apothecary mix up this batch. To my delight, which I tried to underplay in front of the shop keeper who was already eyeing me like I might sprout a second head, I recognized most of the ingredients. Mint, rosehips, pine needles, all normal, plus little blue flowers that I think I remember having healing properties in the game. Rosehips and pine needles contain vitamin C, so I made a cup as well. No sense risking scurvy. 

We stood by the kitchen fire in comfortable silence blowing the steam off our mugs. Inge is not a talker, but she watches. I notice in the practice rooms while the apprentices are struggling, she doesn’t tell them what they’re doing wrong, she lets them work it out, maybe corrects their finger positions now and then. She watches me too. I can respect that is who she is, even recognize that I’m the same in a lot of ways, but it’s unnerving too. What does she see? It’s not like I can ask without making it even more obvious that I don’t fit here. 

We finished our tea by the fire (I’m sure she could smell the burnt plastic from the noodle packet) and retired for the evening. As I write this the dormitory is half empty (half full?) I need to stow my notebook and pen back in the cellar and go to bed before someone else sees the candle. 

Day 103

Finally! It’s been a while. 

When the seniors came back from their three week tour Bendt insisted on making everyone sit down together for a celebratory meal, which doesn’t normally happen. Most of the time students and faculty just grab food out of the kitchen at mealtimes and eat in small groups in the common areas. Which is probably why I’m constantly finding crumbs on the podiums (do you want ants? Because this how you get ants! Memes are lost on this crowd, it’s tragic.) 

But that night we filled every table and ate family style, even Alda and me took seats in the corner with Bendt. It was nice, but I noticed that all through the meal Viarmo, who sat at the center table with the teachers, kept staring at me. Not a “you’ve done something I’m going to yell at you for later” stare and not a “you are doing something really weird” stare either. It was almost like he wanted to say something to me and wished everyone would go away so he could get it over with? He didn’t though. As soon as the students were all done the junior apprentices begged for a rendition of the new pieces they had learned on tour, so everyone but we kitchen staffers were obliged to go up to the reading room for show and tell. With lots of wine bottles in tow. By the time we were done cleaning up the party was in full swing. I was too tired to listen at the stairs like I normally would and went to bed. 

After the group got back there was a lot more to do. Apparently, the Burning of King Olaf festival is a bigger deal than I thought and requires months of preparation. The grounds must be cleared, the effigy sewn and stuffed, food and drink available for the whole city plus visitors, and there’s a song and dance routine too so the apprentice’s costumes from last year have to be washed and mended. Part of me wants to slack off because I know as soon as Torygg is murdered, which could be any day now, the festival will be called off and all this work will be for nothing. Even if the Dragonborn decides to waste their time with the Bard’s quest how long will that take? It feels like a futile exercise, but I can’t let on that I think that, or someone will inevitably ask why. And the more I let myself think about the upcoming murder the more uncomfortable I feel about it. I’m not a monster, I don’t want Torygg to die, but I also don’t know what to do that won’t make things worse or mark me as suspicious. I can’t just walk up to the Blue Palace and tell the guards that Ulfric Stormcloak is going to show up sometime in the future and shout their king to death. If my writing skills were better I’d send an anonymous tip to Tulius. But how do I even do that without being seen? I’ll have to give it some more thought. 

Day 106

What. A. Weird. Day. For the first time since I arrived here I left the security of Solitude and ventured outside the city gates. We were in a group, thankfully. Jorn needed to pick up some lumber to put up the effigy, while Alda and I were charged with a list of things to pick up from the farm just outside the city and the docks. It started out okay. We wandered down to the dock, Alda spoke with Victoria Vicci while I stared at the wall and tried very hard not to think about how many times I’ve viciously assassinated the poor woman on her wedding day. Then the three of us walked back up the hill and parted ways, Jorn going to the mill where a mule strapped with lumber was waiting, and Alda and I going to the farmstead. We picked up a cartful of flour, butter, potatoes, and honey that Bendt had already ordered and paid for in advance. That was supposed to be it, but Alda, the opportunist that she is, insisted that we shouldn’t waste the sunshine (it was a gorgeous day! Warm, for Skyrim anyway, and calm). 

After hauling the cart uphill (thank God I’ve built up some muscle or I would have rolled all the way down to the eddy) we managed to get back to the city gates, where Alda bribed several children with honey candy to take the cart to the back door of the college and promised them that Bendt would give them more sweets when the delivery was made. And he probably did too, after growling at them. 

After we were liberated from our load we went down to the mill, waded across the water (which was a lot warmer than I thought it would be) and went foraging. Alda must have had that in mind all along because she had empty burlap sacks in her pockets for each of us. She pointed out the fungi that were edible and the ones to leave alone and we spent several hours scouring the islets. It reminded me of morel hunting back home. I had to walk further out to be sure Alda didn’t see me getting weepy. Since all this started I've done my best not to think about home. Is anyone watering my plants? Is my mom okay? If I let myself dwell on it too much I just get depressed and that doesn't help me get through the days, it just brings me back to that first thought I had when I set foot on the Solitude walls: if I die here do I DIE or do I go home? 

The sun was just starting to disappear behind the Blue Palace when I heard a bark. A large, scruffy wolf hound bounded out of nowhere and went right for me. All the rising homesickness I’d started to feel came crashing in on me and I found myself laughing and crying at the same time while the dog enthusiastically knocked me on my butt and licked my face. 

Miko’s shack. I had completely forgotten about it. Alda was the one who found the body, which I’m eternally grateful for. I think I might have broken down for real. By the time we made it back to the city, informed the priest of Arkay and the city guard that the hermit had passed, and made it to the college it was full dark. The moment we stepped over the threshold the sound of raised voices caught our ears. All we could do was give each other weary looks before walking into it. Bendt, Jorn, and Viarmo were arguing in the kitchen. As soon as they saw us their anger was redirected. Jorn looked relieved, but put out, Bendt just grumbled about having to handle dinner by himself but took the mushrooms as a peace offering. Viarmo…he needed a minute. 

Alda explained why we were out so late. As she spoke Viarmo kept looking me up and down. I was covered in mud, with leaves in my hair and a huge dog practically plastered to my skirts. He still didn’t seem convinced by her story for some reason, though. Fortunately, we had a slip of parchment signed by the priest of Arkay, which seemed to be a sort of death certificate. After reading it, no more like stared at it intensely as if the script would reveal the secrets of the universe, Viarmo told Alda to be less careless with her duties. Those children could have stolen the cart, and so on. 

“As for you,” he said, pointing at me angrily only to deflate after a pause, “the dog stays in the garden.” He looked like he wanted to say more but thought better of it mid-sentence. 

Jorn and the Headmaster stalked back upstairs to leave Bendt to scold us in his own way. My hands are still raw from peeling potatoes. Miko got a thorough wash and a big dinner of scraps and offal. He seems happy to prowl the grounds getting pats from everyone.

Day 107

I managed to finish my work early enough to have a few moments to myself after lunch, so I decided to take advantage of the empty dormitory to have a wash. A full bath is a once a year sort of luxury here, so I made do with a big bucket of hot water, some flannels, and a bar of soap Alda made me that smells like lavender and mint. Because of the way Solitude was built, I guess, every lower level of every building has at least one drain. I stood over the one in the kitchen to drench and rinse my hair. It felt amazing to be clean. I did the rest of my washing in the dorm behind one of the privacy screens. 

I was just finishing up, toweling my hair dry and standing there in my smalls and breast band (I miss my elasticized undies, but they’re too conspicuous what with the unicorn print and all) when I heard footsteps behind me. I was fully behind the screen, so I didn’t think anything of it, the junior apprentices sleep in the dorm too, so I thought it was one of them. Until I felt hands on my shoulders and just about jumped out of my skin. 

They shushed me, which pissed me off, and when I tried to turn and yell at whoever it was they gripped my shoulders harder and forced me to face the wall. Then it all just came out in a rush, so fast I had a hard time keeping up with what he was saying, but I’m going to try to get it down as faithfully as I can. It went:

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, please don’t turn around or I won’t be able to say this. I think you are magnificent, no matter where you are from, or who your people are, I don’t care. Being away from you on the tour was hard enough, you have no idea how many times I wanted to make up some excuse to cut the trip short, just so I could come home and see you. And then yesterday when you were gone so long and no one knew where you were, I feared the worst. I thought my heart might implode. I don’t expect anything from you. I only needed to tell you how I feel.” 

I knew it was Viarmo the moment he started talking, low and harsh in my ear with his hands bruising my skin and his knotted beard brushing the back of my neck. And I had no idea how to respond. I went from being startled, to annoyed at being touched without permission, to all out bewildered. Where the hell had all that come from?! I haven’t done anything to earn that kind of ardor, probably ever in my life, and this was coming from someone I thought actively hated me. 

He didn’t wait for a response, just slid his hands down my arms and walked briskly away. So, okay, on the one hand I haven’t been so much as hugged in months, so the contact wasn’t exactly unwelcome, once my brain realized what was happening, but the shock stayed with me all day. I don’t know Viarmo, not really. It’s not like we’ve ever sat down and had a conversation. Now he’s shooting declarations at me. Maybe it’s a bard thing? I remember in the game love and marriage were blunt, practical arrangements, but I always thought that was more of a convenient way for the developers to handle it while still keeping the main character a blank slate. 

I spent the rest of the day mulling over what he’d said, and all our previous interactions. Frankly I don’t get it. He’s an elf with a several hundred-year lifespan, devoted to his job and his craft. Why waste time on a human servant? It’s like trying to figure out what the hell the vampire sees in the whiny teenage girl in Twilight. The only thing that makes sense is that he just wants a dalliance, nothing serious. Part of me is tempted. I’m not exactly a super model, in fact compared to these Nord giantesses with their glorious muscles and blonde hair I’m probably the closest thing to a Tolkien dwarf they’ll ever see. So, considering my prospects and the fact that I may never get the hell out of here…I could do worse. I’ve also been reading everything I can get my hands on, and according to some of the biographies I’ve read mature elves have a hard time conceiving, so my chances of getting knocked up would be relatively low. Are STD’s a thing here? They must be, only people don’t talk about it? OMG I can’t believe I’m considering this. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Day 108

Awkward wouldn’t begin to describe the atmosphere right now. I’ve been trying to avoid that damn elf, but every time I turn around, he seems to be on the other side of the room, or just passing through the kitchen, watching. Maybe I’m being paranoid. 

Alda and I have been busting our asses, so it’s not like I have time to do anything about it anyway. Bendt has us making a ton of preserves. We’re also making extra wine for Evette, so now I know what goes into that. Snowberries (which taste like very sour currents) make up most of the mash, mixed with honey, and a blend of dried peppers imported from Cyrodiil. I have to wonder how many apiaries exist in Skyrim alone, because man do they love honey. Maybe that’s something I could do if I never get home, become a beekeeper. That sounds defeatist, but the more I read the more I realize that it’s not going to be a simple matter of picking up the right book with the right mirror activation spell, if such a thing even exists. I really need to talk to a mage. 

Day 109

There are rumors that the Stormcloaks are sending scouts further and further west. The last sighting was outside of Morthal, so they’re not far. I know the day is coming, and the more I think about it the more it feels like I should at least try to stop Torygg from being murdered. Even if no one believes me, I should try, right? That’s the moral thing to do. On the other hand I worry that it will change events too much. What if Torygg living somehow keeps the Dragonborn from defeating Alduin? It might change nothing; it might ruin everything. It would make it less likely that Ulfric can grab power, I know that, but I can’t predict all the other ripples it would set off. Shit. What if I just start a rumor that he’s coming? If Torygg bans Ulfric from entering the city and he’s stopped at the gates what will he do? Damn. I have to do something, or I’ll drive myself crazy. Evette mentioned needing to run a few cases of wine to the palace soon. I’ll volunteer to help her and drop a “I heard a rumor” line in front of the servants. It’s a universal rule, staff love gossip, word will spread through the whole palace in no time. Then it will be up to them to do something about it and I can sleep without a guilty conscience. Tomorrow then.


	6. What You Get For Meddling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.” -Oscar Wilde

Fuck. I’ve lost track of the days. My notebook, and the rest of my stuff, is still stowed away at the college and hopefully will stay there til I can retrieve it. For now I have to make do with whatever scraps of paper I can find. I haven’t used a quill and ink since that high school pointillism project for art class. Messy.

Me and my stupid conscience. I just had to go to the Blue Palace on the day Ulfric Stormcloak rode into the city!! And I just had to be right in the way as he was making his escape. And he just had to grab me and hold me hostage! You’d think someone so obsessed with honor would never consider using an unarmed woman as a hostage, but when faced with a dozen pissed off guards that’s exactly what happened. The prick dragged me out of the palace using me as a human shield, threw me on the back of his horse like baggage and hauled ass out of the city at a full gallop. It was enough to leave me with whiplash and bruised ribs. That’s what my meddling got me, the palace was already on alert because of the rumors I started, but nothing had been organized, so Ulfric managed to get in without any trouble, but would have been captured immediately if I hadn’t still been there. Torygg still died, and Ulfric still got away. The only difference was I was there to absorb any arrows that got too close to his horse’s flank. You would think that Tulius’ men would have immediately been alerted when the Jarl of Windhelm rode into the city. On a huge war horse. Fully armed and armored. And maybe they were, but I’ll be good goddamned if I saw a single soldier from the Keep in pursuit. Though to be fair most of my attention was on not falling and getting trampled or kicked.

Ulfric dumped me in the marsh when we were clear of the city.

And when I say he “dumped me” I literally mean he paused the horse only long enough to push me into the mud in the middle of nowhere with no supplies and galloped off without a word. All I had was the clothes on my back and the small dagger Bendt gave me. It was about midday I think, rainy and overcast, so I couldn’t see the position of the sun. I couldn’t very well stay where I was either, out in the open I would have been picked off by something horrible in no time, so I chose a direction and prayed that it was northwest.

It wasn’t. I managed to choose the exact opposite direction and got to find out just how awesome walking through a half-frozen marsh full of giant crabs and spiders is. At one point I was spotted by a chaurus. It must have been guarding a nest because it spat venom at me but didn’t give chase when I ran. The venom, it turns out, is corrosive! It hit my skirt, burned a hole through the fabric and left a chemical burn the size of a grapefruit just below my knee. Fun. After limping along all night, I was eventually picked up by an Imperial patrol outside of Morthal. Word of what happened had already traveled, so once I explained who I was the guards were very interested in taking me to the jarl to get my statement. The guards didn’t think it was necessary to get me medical attention or even a cup of water before barreling into the interrogation, which took hours. The only thing keeping me awake was the constant pain in my leg.

Jarl Idgrod immediately took a liking to me, though I couldn’t tell you why. As soon as I had recounted every detail I could remember about the attack at the palace, my capture, and unceremonious release she took possession of me (her words). It was nice, being looked after. She had Lami the apothecary see to my injuries. My ribs were wrapped just in case there were any fractures along with the bruising and the chemical burn on my leg was treated with a sticky poultice I suspect was mostly honey. It was infected at that point already. I developed a fever.

Lami insisted that I take the room above her shop while I healed. The infection had to run its course, so while being plied with potions I got to know her pretty well. If she and Idgrod hadn’t been looking after me I might have lost the leg or died. It scared me. It felt almost like the flu, but way worse than any I’d ever had. Chills, fever, vomiting, the whole nine yards. And all the while I just kept going back and forth with the blame. Is it my fault for being too much of a coward to try to do something sooner? Or not doing enough? Is it Ulfric’s fault for murdering a man and not having an escape plan? And that is exactly what it was, make no mistake, he knew Torygg couldn’t refuse the challenge and he knew he wouldn’t survive the Voice. I was by the kitchen door when it happened, waiting for Evette to finish a conversation she was having with the head housekeeper. We felt the Shout reverberate through the stones and shake the building. Seconds later, while everyone was still trying to process what the hell just happened, Ulfric flew down the stairs right in front of me. He knew what he had done, he had to have known what the reaction would be. I’ll never forget the look on his face as he dove down that staircase. He was not in control, there was no plan, no real exit strategy, which makes no sense! I always sort of assumed that the assassination was carefully planned, that Ulfric had his Stormcloak sympathizers ready to go in Solitude to ensure his escape, wasn’t that the whole plot point with the man who gets executed when the DB gets to the city for the first time in the game? So, okay someone opened the gates for him, but how had he thought he was going to get out of the palace? I’ve laid in bed thinking about this for hours on end, sweating like a pig and puking into a bucket. I’ve come to the conclusion that Ulfric Stormcloak is an idiot and I hope his rebellion fails miserably.

It took about a week for the infection to clear up. It was touch and go there for a while, but Lami knows her stuff, even talked me through what she was doing while she was preparing the potions she was feeding me. It was fascinating, way more involved than just throwing ingredients into a bottle and seeing what happens. I get now why you need the alembic. Some ingredients need to be distilled, others must be powdered, or macerated and turned into a solution with a neutral medium. She gave me cure disease and healing potions but had to keep the doses low so it wouldn’t shock my system.

Eventually I was able to walk more than six feet without getting dizzy and made it outside. Not that there is much to see in Morthal. Cold fog hangs over the town most days. Even when the sun is out the damp never goes away, it just turns into a miasma of marsh muck and deathbell (which smell disappointingly like dogwood).

Idgrod made sure that I got new clothes, nothing fancy but much better quality than what I had. What was strange was she seemed to have them handy, and they fit perfectly, but they couldn’t be hers or her daughter’s, both of them are a good deal taller and slimmer than me. I didn’t want to be impolite by asking where they came from though.

She also insisted that I have dinner at the longhouse with her family every night once I was well enough to walk that far. Whatever her reasons I wasn’t about to snub my nose at a free meal.

Each evening after everyone else went to bed Idgrod and I sat around the fire and talked. She never got frustrated with me when I needed a minute to mentally translate a sentence. In fact, she often knew exactly the word I was searching for. Considering that she’s supposed to be clairvoyant it makes sense, but it’s unnerving just the same.

On the second evening, by which time we had already talked about where I came from (in very general and vague terms), how long I had been in Skyrim, and my relationship to the Bard’s College, Idgrod asked “What will you do now, Esme? You are well enough; do you wish to return to Solitude?”

I honestly didn’t know, and I told her as much. I miss Bendt, and the smell of the kitchen, the bards and the music, but I know I can’t spend the rest of my life there scrubbing the floors. My ultimate goal is to get home. To do that I need to find someone who can help me activate the mirror or find another gateway if it exists. My best bet is a mage.

It wouldn’t surprise me if Idgrod knew all of this already, but she didn’t say anything. She just sipped her wine, perfectly content to wait while I worked out my answer. I decided to just be honest. The fire had died down to coals by the time I finished telling her everything. That’s the amazing thing about Idgrod, she doesn’t judge, or push. She’s probably the most patient person I’ve ever met in my life, because she _knows_. I did leave out the whole "your reality is an open world RPG" part, I figured that would be too much even for her.

“If you like,” she said, “I can introduce you to Falion. He’s an accomplished scholar, if he doesn’t know of the method needed to return you to your world, he may know who does.”

Of course, I agreed. Why hadn’t I remembered there was a mage in Morthal? To be fair there is a court wizard in Solitude too, but there’s no way in hell I’m so much as looking in Sybille Stentor’s direction. That woman is scary and I think she might be a vampire?

Idgrod made Falion swear to secrecy before letting me fill him in on my situation. He went from being kind of salty with me to downright fascinated. He promised to make inquiries and research it, and to his credit he did. He wrote letters to former colleagues and every court wizard in the province. While we waited for their replies, I hung out with Lami, learning all about alchemy, and spent my afternoons walking with Idgrod the Younger, who seemed to be pleased just to have someone to chat with who wasn’t her mom or brother. I also received a letter from Solitude, delivered not by courier but to the Inn, which is apparently the more normal (read cheaper) way of getting mail. Actually it was addressed to Idgrod, but she handed it over as soon as Jonna delivered it. I’ve kept it, so I’ll just pin it with the rest of these pages.

_To the esteemed Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, Morthal_

_It was with profound gratitude that I received your correspondence informing we of the Bard’s College that our retainer, Esme, has entered into your care after her kidnapping and subsequent release. I extend my most heartfelt thanks for this joyous news and to hear that the girl is once again in good health._

_As she is not well versed in the written language of Tamriel, a fault I place squarely upon myself, I address this to you. I ask that you communicate the well-wishes of the entire College to Esme. Please assure her that her place with us will remain open and she may return any time she so wishes. I will also be more than happy to arrange transportation to Solitude should she request it. Please keep me apprised to any developments regarding her recovery and overall progress._

_Most sincerely,_

_Headmaster Viarmo_   
_Bard’s College, Solitude_

So, my place as weird foreign kitchen help is open whenever I want to come back. That’s nice to know, if this research never pays off and I need a place to crawl back to I know where to go. Idgrod very pointedly said as she handed me the letter, “The headmaster says far more than he thinks he does. Clever men often do not see their weaknesses, after all.”

Once I was able to decipher it (I wouldn’t let anyone help me, I’ll learn better doing it myself) the letter just seemed overly officious to me. Maybe she’s reading between the lines in a way I can’t?

I don’t like the thought of disappointing anyone by not coming back, but Falion has leads, so I worked on a reply. It took three drafts, proof-read by Idgrod, before it sounded right and not like a tiny child wrote it. I’ve pinned one of the drafts, which is correct except for a few spelling and punctuation errors, to my paper pile. One of these days I’ll get a folder or something for this mess.

_Headmaster Bard’s College, Solitude_

_Sir,_

_I re ~~kc~~ eived your letter from Jarl Idgrod. I am well. My studies continue. Thank you all for thinking of me. I am glad to know that I may return. I would like to, but events have convinced me that I must see more of Skyrim if I am to understand its culture and people. My plan is to start do so as soon as possible. I will always be grateful ~~ly~~ to the College for giving me a home when I had nothing and no one. I hope to see you all someday soon._

_Sincerely,_

_Esme_

That took ages to get right. And it still sounds as stilted as a middle school book report. Because she was proofreading Idgrod of course immediately asked me how I planned to see more of Skyrim. At that point my plan was to wait for Falion to point me in the direction of someone who could help me, and just get to that person wherever they happened to be. That was as far as I thought it out.

I’m sure that she has something in mind but hasn’t mentioned it yet. In the meantime, I’m making myself useful by helping Lami and reading through Falion’s books (which is slow going to say the least). Lami showed me how to make a topical remedy for arthritis out of mora tapinella, fire salts, blue mountain flower, and briar heart. It smells like a dumpster fire, but she swears it works, so I sent a jar of it along with my letter to Solitude for Inge Six Fingers. I don’t like to see anyone in pain, okay? And she reminds me of my granny.


	7. Tempting Fate

Morthal Sundas, 14th of Mid Year 4E201

One of the benefits of there being fuck all to do in Morthal is that almost everyone is happy to take the time to teach me something they know about. Lami has been great not only with the alchemy lessons, but improving my pronunciation during our chats, while Idgrod helps me with reading in the evenings. Even Benor agreed to show me some self-defense moves bare-hand and with a dagger. Falion is less patient but has been incredibly helpful with things like the Tamrielian calendar, which ties into our history lessons, which in turn tie into our research into the mirror. 

Unfortunately, so far we haven’t found anything promising. But I have to remind myself that everything goes much slower here. I’m just anxious to know that there might be a way out before things get dragon-attack-y. 

Was I plopped in the middle of all this to disrupt how it goes? I would almost welcome a Daedra showing up and demanding me to do something, at least it would give me some insight into the purpose of all of this. If there is any. That’s the thought that depresses me the most, that there might be no reason at all. Maybe it’s some stupid bet between immortals a la Discworld. What will the silly mortal do? Let’s watch!

Now that Torygg is dead the events of the beginning of the game might have already started. I don’t remember if it’s mentioned how long it took for the Imperials to catch up with Ulfric after the murder. The latest news is that he’s still on the run. I’m driving myself a little crazy wondering. 

I dropped a hint to Idgrod and Falion about Alva being a vampire. The fire hadn’t happened yet, so I thought maybe there’s still a chance that it can be prevented. Maybe I’m tempting fate, but I really don’t want that little girl to die. I see her playing with the other kids every day. She can’t be more than six or seven years old. I think Falion already suspected, but Idgrod won’t do anything without evidence and I can’t very well tell her that all of this is a game I’ve played, it’s already a stretch getting them to believe that I’m from another world. 

Since sunlight doesn’t make vamps burst into flames here (that would have been convenient!) and garlic doesn’t work I had to figure something else out. Then I remembered the journal. Scared shitless wouldn’t begin to describe it, I can pick a lock and I can be quiet, but can I sneak passed a vamp? Probably not. It took some coercion and coordination to make it happen. Falion agreed to watch my back and Idgrod greased Benor’s palm, so he was on standby as muscle in case things got out of hand. She didn’t want to start a panic, but she believed me. 

Back home I’d call Alva a thirsty ho, which would almost be funny if she wasn’t also a stone-cold killer. She spends a lot of her time in the tavern “entertaining” the guests so we waited until sundown when she was accustomed to go work and I snuck in. If I ever get back home, I’m going to hug the crap out of my sister for always locking me out of the bathroom. Lock-picking is the only useful skill I’ve had since the beginning of all this. 

The journal was, miracle of miracles, in the coffin exactly where it was in the game. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to find! What I hadn’t counted on was Alva coming back early. She was too busy to notice the lock, or my scent, but I did have to hear…everything as I hid in a cupboard with my pulse hammering. It’s funny what you notice when you’re wedged in a confined space, waiting for people to finish having sex. Like the contents of their pantry. Alva doesn’t need food, but I still found myself sitting on a pile of what turned out to be crystallized honeycomb. I really don’t want to think too hard about what she used it for. Once her guest left I could hear Alva shuffling around. She would have found me, I have no doubt of that at all, had Benor not banged on the door and told her that Jonna wanted her for something at the Inn. Bless that man, he does have some brains! 

I went straight to Idgrod with the journal…and a substantial amount of honeycomb stuck to my ass. She organized a small group of guards to arrest Alva, but the sneaky bitch had to have known something was up and disappeared, probably back to the vamp lair where her master is hiding. The plan had been to drag her to the mound where Falion could perform the cleansing ritual to cure her. In hindsight I wouldn’t put it passed her to run right back to her vamp pals and beg to be infected again. Based on her journal entries she’s too in love with the power to give it up. At least now people know there is a vampire problem and can be on their guard. And that little girl and her mom are still alive. I feel pretty good about it, like maybe I can help people. Maybe I’m supposed to.


	8. Travel Plans

Morthal

Fredas, 19th of Mid Year 4E201

No word on vampire activity, I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or not. They might just be regrouping. Idgrod keeps telling me not to worry, that she and Falion have it under control. I'll just have to take her word, it’s not like I’m going vampire hunting by myself. I did suggest that she get the Dawnguard involved. Let them come in and slaughter the undead, that’s their job, right? Falion seemed resistant to the idea, but wouldn't say why. Maybe he has a history with them as well, I mean he can be a little difficult to get along with. Even so Morthal needs more than a handful of guards and townsfolk with pitchforks.

****

We might have finally caught a break! Falion heard back from Winterhold. He’s still on relatively good terms with Tolfdir, who sent a very enthusiastic reply about a similar sort of mirror being referenced in an obscure book in the college library. He of course didn’t have the book on hand but promised to have the librarian locate it and set it aside for study. The book can’t leave the college, in other words, but I can go to the book. Okay, I’ll take that!

Idgrod of course had a plan ready the moment we shared the news with her. The court wizard in Whiterun, Farengar, has already agreed to accompany me on a trip to the college. Since I’m not a mage I won’t be allowed in without an escort and Falion refuses to go, for reasons he’s decided to keep to himself.

I leave for Whiterun in the morning. So of course, this afternoon Jonna delivered another letter from Solitude.

_Thaumaturgist’s Hut, Morthal_

_Esme,_

_I was pleased to hear that you are in no immediate danger after your illness. The jarl is truly a generous and kind woman._

_I must express my disappointment however, to hear that you intend to leave her protection to pursue endeavors of a magical nature. While magic has always had a place in our history, it can be exceedingly dangerous._

_Skyrim is a beautiful land. I encourage you to explore it but know that there are less hazardous ways of doing so. Should you return to Solitude I would be glad to arrange your inclusion in our future tours through the province. There are cities far more pleasing than Winterhold to visit, I assure you._

_If you insist on going forward with your current plans, of which the jarl has already graciously informed me, please let me know how you fair whenever possible. I am delighted by the improvement of your writing. The additional practice can only be a benefit._

_Bendt is holding your things for you. The students and staff all extend heartfelt well-wishes, whatever your decision._

_Most sincerely,_   
_Viarmo_

Idgrod had to have told him about the Whiterun expedition before we got the reply from Tolfdir. Why she thought he needed to know before I did is a mystery to me. I guess I should be upset by that, but it’s just how she operates. I’m less okay with Viarmo’s implication that I can’t handle the dangers of an escorted wagon ride to see some mages. Am I a weakling? Absolutely. Do I like being reminded of that? Nope.

It would take all night to write a coherent reply, so I’ve decided to wait until I get to Whiterun. That will give me time to think about what I want to say.


	9. Whiterun

Whiterun

Turdas, 23rd of Mid Year 4E201

It was a fairly uneventful journey, just bumpy, cold and uncomfortable. Because of the terrain it took two days to get from Morthal to Whiterun. The driver, Jervar, turned out to be the son of the Whiterun stable master. Idgrod also sent Benor with me as a bodyguard. And joy of joys I got to discover on the road that these men hate each other. Jervar is a clod, but guileless, while Benor is sort of the resident jock in Morthal. Both suffer from the same pathological need to prove they’re the baddest mofos in the Providence that most Nords seem to have. The whole journey was a constant pissing contest.

When we stopped to camp I slept in the back of the wagon and they set up their bedrolls as far away from each other as possible. We didn’t make a fire, it was a clear night and any bandits on the road would have spotted it instantly. Idgrod outfitted me with warm clothes, but it was still a miserable night. The wilderness in Skyrim doesn’t sound right. No birds and it’s too cold in this region for insects, so it’s mostly this eerie mix of wind blowing through the crags and the occasional wolf call in the distance. Fortunately, we never saw any wolves. At least the landscape is pretty and I got to see the aurora. The whole sky lit up with shimmering greens and pinks. I watched the light show for a long time before I finally fell asleep.

The second day it started to snow a bit. By the time we made camp again Benor and Jervar were sniping at each other for the umpteenth time. I made rabbit stew with elves ear, garlic, carrots, and some diced potato. That meal around the fire with snowflakes falling all around us was the most enjoyable part of the trip and it was utterly ruined when Jervar made a pass at me.

“It’s too cold to sleep in the back of the wagon. You can share my tent if you wanna stay warm.” end quote.

Benor wasn’t about to let that go. Before I could even react with a stern “no thank you” he declared Jervar’s entire family were without honor and called his ancestors dung-shovelers. A brief, and not particularly impressive, fist fight broke out leaving Jervar with a serious set of bruises and a cracked tooth. At least they got it out of their systems.

It was a relief to see Dragons Reach come into view the next morning, though I’m a little disappointed that we didn’t spot any giants or mammoths on the way. I don’t want to fight them of course, just to see them in the distance with a good stretch of tundra between us. The snow had completely cleared and it was relatively warm and sunny as we rode up to the Whiterun stables. I very much wanted to stop at the Khajiit merchant’s tent outside the city walls, but Benor wouldn’t let me, mumbling some racist line about all “sand cats” being thieves and swindlers. I held my tongue, but I'm sure he noticed that I was less than pleased with that.

We left Jervar at the stables as soon as our things were unpacked and headed into the city. I can understand why they don’t allow horses inside; the mess would be horrific. As picturesque as it is the faint smell of shit from both animals and people still lingers in the Plains District. What I wouldn’t give for some Purell. After being outdoors for so long it hit me hard, but like most things I just got used to it after about a half hour. Benor did his duty by getting me to the Cloud District, then went off to get his real business done, applying to the Companions. Since I don’t remember him ever being one in the game, I assume it didn’t go well. I haven’t seen him since.

Jarl Balgruuf was gracious enough, though I’m sure that had everything to do with his respect for Idgrod and nothing to do with me, which is fair.

Farengar turned out to be as condescending as I remembered his character. He had already been planning a brief visit to the college anyway, he said, to consult with the mages about a matter for the jarl. Since dragons haven’t happened yet I suspect it has something to do with Balgruuf’s creepy son, the one who is talking to the Daedra in the basement. Mephala? Or Namira? One of those. So far she hasn’t spoken to me and I’m very okay with that.

I was put in a tiny room, probably part of the servant’s quarters reserved for retainers of visiting nobles, which is sort of what I am, I suppose. Balgruuf called me Idgrod’s “ward” and that’s as apt a description as any. She’s taking care of me, making arrangements, even gave me a little spending money.

I spent most of the day trying to work the wagon ride kinks out of my spine. I walked down to the Market stalls, bought a few ingredients from Arcadia and used her alembic to make a healing potion like Lami taught me. I wanted to have one for the road, just in case. She and I had a nice chat while I worked. The backstory Idgrod gave me is that I’m a Breton war widow whose dead Legionnaire husband (we decided his name was Drevor) had family ties to Morthal. Having no family or prospects Idgrod took me into her service and is sending me to Winterhold to research something from one of her visions. I practiced it in my head a dozen times but stumbled when Arcadia innocently asked how long I’d been married. Damn but people are nosy. At least it gives me something to mull over while I procrastinate. I haven’t forgotten about writing Viarmo back, I just don’t know what to say. I wish I could send a letter just to Bendt, but I’m pretty sure he can’t read.

*******

After spending almost all day wandering around I bumped into Lisette! She was coming out of the Bannered Mare as I was heading for the stairs and we had an embarrassingly girly reunion right there in front of the town well. Before I knew it we were sitting at a table in the Mare with Jorn and Aia (who gave me the stink-eye, but I ignored her) catching up over mead. They were all still dusty from the road, I noticed. When I asked what they were all doing in Whiterun uncertainty crossed all their faces at once. Lisette said it was unusual to tour so close to the Festival, but that Viarmo had insisted. And speak of the devil the Headmaster himself popped out of nowhere just then, grinning broadly and urging me to have dinner with them. I couldn’t very well say no, but I did pay for my own meal. It was nice, at first, I got to recount everything that happened since the Blue Palace. Even Aia listened intently. I can only imagine that they were all mentally composing their own ballads about the tragic murder of High King Torygg. They can fight amongst themselves about whose is better later. I had just gotten to the bit about the Morthal vampires when a blonde man I didn’t recognize pulled a chair right up to our table and plopped himself down beside me.

“Good evening fellow Bards!” he drawled like they were old friends. The others collectively rolled their eyes. Viarmo looked like he could chew through his beer stein. This turned out to be Mikael, who shamelessly flirted with everyone at the table-and I do mean everyone-until the matron barked at him to get back to work. Then oh the side-eyed gossiping once he was gone! Jorn called him an “absolute dog” who “couldn’t be left alone with a fresh cheese.” I think that might be a euphemism.

We all talked for a long while before I actually got any kind of sense of what they were doing there in the first place. Viarmo said he has a friend, Adonato Leotelli, who is visiting Skyrim from Cyrodiil and they were supposed to meet in Whiterun. He decided to make a trip out of it, since bards need “constant stimulation and must challenge each other regularly.” Aia took up that thread and went to riff with Mikael, who was soon just playing back up for her. Attitude aside I have to concede that she’s very good. Lisette and Jorn soon joined in, leaving just me and Viarmo at the table. While the crowd of regulars gathered around the fire, clapping and hooting, it did not escape my attention that the elf scooted himself as close as he could get to me without touching.

“I don’t want you to go to Winterhold.” He blurted out once we were alone. “You can come back with us. Everyone misses you.”

Now I wasn’t drunk, but he was well on his way. He flushed, making those green eyes of his practically glow. And I’ll admit thinking he was very pretty right then, looking all bothered and vulnerable. I always assumed that, being an elf, Viarmo was probably a great deal older than me, but now I don’t think so. He might only be in his thirties or forties, which is really young when you could conceivably live to two hundred. That idea clicked for me, and I think for the first time I saw him as just a guy, instead of an authority figure.

Of course, I can’t just shelve my plans. I told him that I miss them all too, but Idgrod gave me a task and I owe her to complete it before I can return to Solitude, which I do plan on doing eventually.

“And besides,” I said trying to lighten the mood, “I’m sure not everyone is sad to see me gone. Aia does not like me.”

“Aia thinks she deserves the world’s regard and anyone who doesn’t agree should go to Oblivion.” He said more heatedly than I expected. Well, at least now I know that I’m not the only one who thinks that Aia is stuck up. I couldn’t help it, that made me smile. He smiled back.

And I’ll never know what might have happened after that. The music stopped; glass shattered. An explosion of slurred battle cries and flying flatware suddenly erupted from the center of the room. I could just see Jorn through the crowd, pounding the absolute shit out of Mikael. The city guard must have heard the ruckus and came flooding through the door. Viarmo ushered me out through the kitchen.

I never did find out what Mikael did to piss off Jorn enough to warrant such an epic ass whooping. Even Lisette was surprised. Mikael was limping and doubled over the arm of a guard when they finally came out. I followed them up to the Keep, because both men either couldn’t or wouldn’t pay their fines and found it preferable to spend the night in a cell. By then it was late. Our travel party was supposed to leave for Winterhold at dawn, so I reluctantly said my goodbyes to the group. I hugged each of them, even Aia which seemed to annoy her (bonus) leaving Viarmo for last. He didn’t get too handsy, but he did press his face into my hair and mumbled for me to write. Often. They went back to the Bannered Mare and I slunk back to my little room to get a few hours sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who hasn't had their fun evening out interrupted by a drunken bar fight, amiright? (though not recently). Also, I have no idea where this subplot with Viarmo is going, so we'll just have to figure it out together ;)


	10. On the Road Again

Winterhold

Middas, 1st of Sun’s Height 4E201

I am never traveling with Farengar again. I can barely stand to be in the same room with him after that journey. It started out fine, we left Whiterun with two female guards, Mette and Juni, and our driver which thankfully was not Jervar this time, but an old Nord named Axel (really). He reminded me a lot of Jack Palance. I kept picturing him with a cowboy hat and annoyed Farengar with my inexplicable snickering. Axel drives the stage from Whiterun to Windhelm then up to Winterhold picking up and dropping off passengers and cargo along the way, then he turns around and does it again. That’s how Farengar will go back, Balgruuf paid for a round trip.

Even though the mage’s expenses were covered, even though he was given not one but two bodyguards, food and accommodation when it was available, the man spent the entire trip complaining about absolutely everything. I’m not saying I don’t agree with some of his points, sleeping out in tents isn’t my favorite thing either, and traveling by stage is slow, but good lord did it get old. He also can’t seem to stop being condescending either. I made the mistake of asking about the book he was reading on the first day, just to try to make conversation. The first words out of his mouth were “I doubt you could comprehend it even if I explained it to you in the most basic terms.” Yeah. Five days of that. So fun. Any time anyone asked a question, or even made an offhanded remark his responses were very much in the same vein. You are all ignorant and inferior peasants, blah blah blah. If all mages were like that, I would rethink this whole trip.

We stopped and stayed at the Candlehearth Inn in Windhelm on day two. I wasn’t sure what to expect. In the game it was probably my least favorite city, it just looked severe and bleak and cold, even the “nice” parts above the Grey Quarter. Sadly it was all of that magnified by the power of smell. There’s this perpetual odor of hot metal, human waste, and fish that just hangs over the city. And unlike Morthal, where I got used to the swampy muck stench, Windhelm just kept finding new ways to ruin my day. It’s spring now, so it’s not completely covered in the snow and ice shown in the game, but that made it worse. I could feel the water vapor laced with who knows what germy goodness rising out of the stones as we walked through the gates, swirling around our ankles with every step. Axel had cargo to pick up the next day, so even though it was just after noon when we arrived, we stayed overnight. It gave everyone a chance to stretch. The four of us left Axel at the stables and went to the Inn to check in. We had two rooms reserved for us, and Farengar of course insisted that he should have one to himself. The prick. That meant that Mette, Juni, and I had to share a room with just two beds, but it sort of worked out. While he spent the whole time alone in his room the rest of us explored the Grey Quarter (at my insistence). It is slummy, and all the street filth does run down into the quarter when it rains, you can see the flood stains. For all that though I wanted to throw some business the elves’ way, especially after hearing some very casual racist remarks from people not only at the inn, but in the street, which I won’t repeat here. Windhelm makes Solitude seem like a progressive haven by comparison. There’s still anger toward elves in Solitude of course, but the open, tolerated hostility in Ulfric Stormcloak’s city is truly sickening. It doesn’t help that with their jarl still MIA there’s a lot of uncertainty in the city. The steward is in charge, so it’s not exactly a state of chaos, but you can feel the tension.

We found some really great food at a tiny hole in the wall run by an old dunmer couple, Vonoron and Tirvise. They were suspicious of us at first, I couldn’t really blame them, but my foreignness helped break the ice. I explained that where I’m from there were so few elves that I had never seen one before coming to Skyrim (that’s not exactly a lie) so I wanted to experience their culture while passing through.

Elvish food, or at least the cuisine from Morrowind they served, reminded me a lot of Indian. Heavy on the spice and frost miriam, with a tang of something that almost passed for citrus but turned out to be a very assertive yogurt. I made a point of praising it until the proprietors were grinning from ear to ear and even gave us free dessert, which was warm bread pudding with roasted nuts on top. Easily the highlight of the trip. If I pass through Windhelm again I will definitely go back.

Mette and Juni eventually relaxed and by the time we returned to the inn from wandering the market stalls we set up a sleep-over arrangement in our one room and munched on apples and cheese for dinner while we chatted. Turns out Mette is a widow who started doing mercenary work in Whiterun. Then she was injured on a job and had to settle for joining the Guard to keep her kids fed. Juni grew up on a farm but wanted to travel and hit things. She’s seeing a guard from Dawnstar and they plan to settle down and raise a family when their fighting days are over. It was so sweet, listening to this woman who could crush my skull with her bare fist talk about all the babies she wants someday.

I decided to sleep in my bedroll on the floor, mostly because I didn’t trust that the inn’s beds wouldn’t be full of bugs and who knows what other nastiness, but I didn’t mention that. Mette and Juni spent the rest of the trip after that making sure that I was comfortable.

The journey north from Windhelm to Winterhold was uneventful. Except that Axel and Juni took down a sabre cat. It didn’t attack, in fact it looked like it was gnawing on roadkill as we rolled up, but they weren’t going to take any chances. Juni shot it with an arrow from the wagon, then Axel finished it off with his ax. We all helped skin, gut, and dress it, except for Farengar who sat on his ass the whole time complaining about how long we were taking. I’m glad he was ignored. It would have been upsetting to kill the cat and just leave its carcass on the side of the road. Axel packed the meat in snow and sold it cheap to the Innkeeper at the Frozen Hearth once we arrived.

Even in summer the mountains to the north where the Mage’s college was built are stupid cold. The wind blows straight off the water and into your bones. Winterhold is larger than it seemed in the game, like most things, but you can see the ruins of the abandoned houses and broken architecture from the great collapse everywhere.

By the time we arrived on day five it was late and the college had closed its gates, so once again we took rooms at the inn. Axel joined us in the main room for supper, which was nice because once he has a few drinks he starts telling horrible, raunchy stories about all the weird shit he’s seen as a driver over the years. And once again I couldn’t help but imagine him as the Marlboro Man with a cowboy hat and spurs riding a mammoth, which made his stories even funnier. My favorite was the one about a bandit outside Windhelm who was so drunk that he tried to rob Axel with a wooden sword. Any story that ends with “And there he was, standing bare-assed in the snow, and me with his coin purse” is an instant hit around here.

All four of us were rolling and red faced by the time we finished our last round. Farengar elected to eat alone in his room. The innkeeper was nice enough to give me a tiny room of my own once he saw what a selfish dickhole the mage was being. He might also just be a teeny bit prejudiced against mages. Since they don’t get much traffic and the room wasn’t being used anyway, he said it was no hardship. I still ordered a very big breakfast in the morning and tipped the serving girl, which confused her into a fit of giggles. I guess tipping is only a bard thing? This confuses me.

Anyway, we walked up to the college the next morning, with Farengar leading the way with his chest puffed out like he owned the place. There was no one standing guard at the entrance on the outskirts of town. That always seemed like a ridiculous thing to ask someone to do, just stand here and wait for new students to cast a spell or be convincing enough to let in? What a boring job. The seal at the entrance recognized Farengar as a mage and let us pass.

We trudged up the ramps for what felt like ten fucking miles with the wind blowing across our path the whole way and not a single railing in sight in some sections. Oh Dear Sweet Buttery Jesus WHY?! I get there was a collapse but…mages can’t hire masons? Or tie a rope across the exposed bits? Something??? I started chanting the Bene Gesserit mantra from Dune to keep myself from freaking out or throwing up. It helps.

By the time we got to the actual college gates, huffing and wind-burned in a single file line, Tolfdir was already waiting for us. What a nice man. He was even nice to Farengar, which puts him in the lead for the most patient person in the universe contest as far as I’m concerned, right behind Idgrod. He showed us to our temporary rooms in the dormitory, we each got our own, even Mette and Juni which must have been a pleasant change for them.

There really are NO DOORS. None. Not a single door to any of the dorm cells. When I asked why that was Tolfdir said there are doors, but they have to be activated by magic, it’s one of their little initiations for new mages. You want privacy? Figure it out. How fun, there’s hazing for mages.

I thought about asking him to just tell me how to do it, but it felt wrong, like asking for the answers to a pop quiz you didn’t study for. Instead I squeezed into the full-sized wardrobe to change out of my traveling clothes and promised myself as I knocked my elbows into the wood panels that during my stay here I will endeavor to learn a little magic. Maybe something practical, like fire, since I may never see my Zippo again. Invisibility would be sweet too. I’ll ask around and see if anyone is willing to show me a thing or two. But first! Tomorrow I head to the library and start studying that book. How crazy would it be if I came across the spell to activate the mirror on day one? That would be great. Incredibly unlikely, but great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For you youngin's who may not know Jack Palance was an actor who was in a lot of westerns. Look up his IMDB he had a really interesting career. And the litany from Dune, by Frank Herbert (which was truncated in the David Lynch movie, but I still love that version don't judge me) from the novel goes: 
> 
> I must not fear.  
> Fear is the mind-killer.  
> Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.  
> I will face my fear.  
> I will permit it to pass over me and through me.  
> And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.  
> Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.  
> Only I will remain.


	11. Winterhold

Winterhold

Turdas, 9th of Sun’s Height 4E201

Urag the Librarian is a terrifying man. Orcs look like straight up demons in person, with their crazy long canines and green skin, but that’s not why he’s scary. Urag takes his job very seriously. When Tolftir directed me to the library I didn’t know what to expect, so I wore a set of novice robes they provided (which are exceptionally comfortable, I’m going to ask if I can keep them) and approached him as a pupil would. That might have been a mistake, because he immediately asked me a number of embarrassing questions about my hygiene regimen.

I didn’t say “Hey buddy I don’t plan on picking up the book with my butt cheeks” but I certainly thought it loudly.

I started to explain my task and who I was but he already knew. Idgrod wrote him personally, which is the only reason he’s tolerating my presence in his precious library. I sat through a lecture on proper handling and book conservation for about an hour before he finally sat me at a small desk where he could keep an eye on me and placed the book down like a cleric with some holy relic. He handed me a pair of soft gloves and tiny silver tweezers for page turning. By the time he left me with it I was terrified to so much as breath on the damned thing. At least someone had been nice enough to mark the section in the book I needed with a scrap of parchment.

The book is called: A Treatise on Harmonic Displacement: From Theory to Practice. Catchy. There’s also no attributed author, or rather there isn’t any more if the scorch marks are any indication. No wonder Urag is so nervous about letting strangers touch his books. I had to ask for a dictionary as well, which seemed to both annoy and amuse him. I ran across about a dozen new words on the first page alone. It’s been a week now and I’ve gotten through four and a half pages. This is going to take forever.

Farengar, Mette and Juni all left to return to Whiterun this morning. I will miss those badass ladies. They seemed genuinely sad that I wasn’t going with them and I told them to stay in touch. I mean it too, I’d love to get letters from someone other than Viarmo, though I haven’t heard from him or anyone else for that matter since we left Dragonsreach. Juni promised to deliver my correspondence to Jarl Balgruuf herself and to make sure my letters to Idgrod and the Bard’s College are sent from Whiterun. According to the locals getting mail in Winterhold is irregular at best. Sometimes couriers simply vanish on the long, icy road up here.

The court wizard gave me a very polite, formal farewell in front of the gates before heading off to meet Axel at the Inn. He spent most of his time picking the brains of the other mages here while I’ve been studying. From what I’ve overheard I think I was right that he was trying to find some reason and/or cure for Balgruuf’s youngest son’s behavioral problems. From the sour look on his face I guess it wasn’t successful, but it’s hard to tell, he kind of always looks like that. So…I probably shouldn’t have but I mentioned in my letter to the jarl that he might want to investigate the locked door in the keep. I told him that while I stayed down there, I thought I heard a child’s voice whispering to someone through the door and that I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but I had since heard about the boy’s odd behavior. Hopefully he won’t take it the wrong way.

Farengar might be pissed if he finds out I went over his head, but I don’t really care. I tried to talk to him about it before and he completely shot me down saying I should “learn my place and stop trying to interfere with matters that don’t concern me.” Maybe there’s a nugget of truth in there but coming from him it just made me angry. Trying to help a little boy isn’t my place? Donkey balls it isn’t! I saved at least two people in Morthal and the universe hasn’t collapsed, so if I’m careful maybe the butterfly effect won’t destroy the timeline as I know it after all. Plus I’m not going anywhere near that door myself. I don’t remember the details, but I’m pretty sure it’s a cursed sword in there. No thanks. Balgruuf can just move the damned thing somewhere more secure and far away from his family, problem solved. The DB can figure it out later. Speaking of, still no news on that front, nothing about Ulfric being arrested, or anything weird happening in Helgen. Yet.


	12. Fire!

Winterhold

Sundas, 12th of Sun’s Height 4E201

I’ve gotten through a whole six pages in the book and…I don’t understand any of it. I’m trying! But whoever wrote it had to have been a seasoned academic, that’s the only excuse for all the insider jargon and eleven-syllable words I keep having to look up.

On the bright side I’ve already learned a spell! I wasn’t sure how magic works in this universe exactly, everyone seems to be able to do magic if they just memorize the right phrase or pick up a staff, but I’ve never been clear on where the power comes from exactly. Enchanting requires soul gems (which I’m not comfortable with, even if we’re just talking animal souls you’re still enslaving the spirit of another creature and that’s messed up) but regular magic seems to draw energy from the caster’s own body. Faralda taught me a simple fire spell. She also took pity on me and showed me how to activate the door runes in my room. No more sleeping fully clothed!

“It’s not about memorization exactly,” she said, “but about focusing intent. Spoken spells help beginners with that, but the caster must always be very clear about what they want to happen. If you only think ‘fire’ without concentrating on where it should go, how intense you want it, and how far away from your skin it should be cast, you’re risking incineration just to light a candle.”

Then she started describing mana. I wasn’t sure if I even have any, since I wasn’t born in this universe. I always thought of it as a reserve of special energy that you draw from, but Faralda said that’s a contrivance. It’s more like running or lifting weights, that energy is coming from your body. Same concept, just from a set of “muscles” you don’t use for anything else. After a few completely failed attempts I managed a tiny spark and felt like I’d just run a marathon. I don’t think Faralda even expected me to manage that and told me to keep practicing. As condescending as her Altmer accent makes her sound I can tell that she really does want me to succeed and I’m grateful for the encouragement.

There must be something about this planet or this universe at large that allows magic to be tapped into, otherwise just thinking about setting stuff on fire would have worked on Earth…and our entire society would be WAY different as a result. No one seems to know what that something is, of course. How could they? I’d love to discuss it with some of the instructors, but I’m not comfortable with letting everyone and their brother know that I’m not native to Nirn. At best it would result in a lot of unwanted attention from every scholar and mage in Tamriel. At worst it would put a target on my back. I have zero interest in becoming anyone’s guinea pig, particularly since they haven’t developed anesthetics here yet. Skooma doesn’t count.

Still, I’ll be practicing the fire spell until I’ve got it down and hopefully feel less horribly weak after casting. It also gave me a headache, which is less than ideal. All my painkillers are still in Solitude. I’d ask Viarmo to just send my stuff here but that would tempt him to look at it, which I don’t want, and it could get lost or stolen on the way, which would also suck. No, it’s better if I work with what I have. There are alchemy stations all over the college, it’s just ingredients that are difficult to get. There’s only so much you can forage from a frozen wasteland.


	13. The Deep Road to Catharsis

Winterhold

Loredas, 18th of Sun’s Height 4E201

I finally gave up and just transcribed the marked section of the book and sent it off to Morthal for Falion to figure out. Took a full day to copy. After that I was left with time on my hands, and a cramp, so I’ve been scouring the library for anything that looks useful or interesting. Urag still keeps a watchful eye on me, but that’s okay. I found a basic invisibility spell! My number one most favorite superpower ever! I still haven’t been able to actually make it work, but that will just take time and practice. I can also hold a small flame now without burning myself. When I can hit a target Faralda promised that we’ll move on to ice next. She’s sparing in her praise, but I think I’m doing okay.

I can’t say that I understand the magic theory books that are recommended for apprentices. All of them seem to have been written with the assumption that the student already has a rudimentary understanding of how magic works in a practical sense. Since I’m only just getting a grasp on that, and it’s really more instinctual than intellectual, I’ve found it’s more useful to listen in on the periodic lectures given in the main hall with the other students. Colette gave an interesting, if somewhat passive aggressive, speech about the importance of the Restoration school that put healing and wards back on my radar.

My reading has been geared toward histories. I wish I had paid more attention to the codex before, but I’m making up for it now. A section in a collection of stories centered around Queen Potema caught my attention. It was just a brief passage, which I’ve copied:

_“Upon her arrival much pomp and celebration were decreed. Her husband, King Mantiarco, withered by age and unseen by his young bride, sought her love most eagerly and dangled power before her as one might tempt a child with a bauble. Many a well-known painter found his end in Solitude then, for no commissioned portrait was found acceptable to the new queen. Greater in size and embellishments each offering became. Still greater the count of bloody heads did roll from the block for her disappointment. Finally, the artisan Dervenin presented the queen not with a portrait, but a magnificent looking glass of grand scale and exceptional clarity that she might gaze upon her loveliness unadulterated. Only then was the Wolf Queen satisfied.”_

Granted this sounds more like a fairy tale version of events and I haven’t been able to find any other references to Dervenin yet, but it sure as hell sounds like the mirror I fell out of. It even had a painting stretched over it, which my hefty ass ripped to Oblivion on impact. Not a bad hiding place. I’ll copy that passage and send it to Falion as well.

In the meantime, I need to figure out what to do about Saarthal. Tolfdir talks about the dig with such boundless enthusiasm it’s hard not to get caught up in it. Then I remember the utterly pointless clusterfuck that occurs after they find the Eye of Magnus. This isn’t an easy one to fix. Tolfdir won’t abandon the site for anything and if I tell him what’s down there he will just be more likely to want to see for himself. How do I keep them from uncovering it? I wish it was as simple as clearing everyone out and dynamite blasting the whole complex til it’s just a smoking pile of rubble. I realize that would be a huge loss of local history, like nuking the pyramids, but that glowing ball of fuckery needs to stay buried.

Fortunately, Tolfdir is adamant, at least for now, that it’s no place for students. As far as my limited influence goes I’ll encourage that line of thinking. So far they’ve only just gotten to the first chamber and are busy cataloging every pottery shard they find. I also haven’t seen Ancano yet, so there should still be time.

Maybe I can cheat a little and tell them Idgrod Saw something in one of her visions, something dangerous that would lead to the Arch Mage’s death. That might get Savos’ attention if nothing else. Okay so it would be a lie, and I would be using Idgrod’s name to get my way, but it would also mean that several people won’t have to die.

However, there are two problems with that tactic:

A) The Arch Mage and Tolfdir would be totally justified in writing Idgrod to ask her if I’m telling the truth.

B) If I ask Idgrod for her permission first, so that she can confirm what I’ve told the mages, her next logical question would be how I know what’s going to happen at Saarthal. I really don’t want to have to explain that, especially in the form of a letter. A letter that could be read by anyone else who happens to get hold of it from here to there. If we have to have that conversation, I’d prefer to do it in person somewhere private.

So far all of the books Urag has been able to find on Saarthal are common histories, which Tolfdir has already read through, so I know there won’t be any references to the Eye then. They deal with the involvement of Ysgramor, the Night of Tears, and tend to skew to the Nord perspective. Not very helpful. I also haven’t been able to find much on the Psjic Order. The only interesting tidbit that I didn’t know was that they’ve disappeared more than once in history. The first time was in the 1st Era, then again about a hundred years ago. That seems significant to me. None of this gives me any insight on how to stop the Eye from being discovered, however. I’m getting frustrated.

*********************************************************************************************************************************************

I needed advice. I absolutely needed someone to help me with the Saarthal dilemma, in my mind anyway, so I did something incredibly stupid and dangerous. I went to find the Augur of Dunlain. Clearly it didn’t kill me, but I’m not exactly in one piece either.

The Midden isn’t hard to get into, turns out. I snuck down there after midnight with a pack of supplies and a hatchet Sergius gave me to practice enchanting on. I managed a weak fire rune. What I should have brought was someone who actually knows how to fight. At first I just kept running into skeevers. I HATE skeevers. They’re like the greasy, disease-riddled love children of garbage-fed possums and the ROUS’ from Princess Bride. Only not as charming. The first one I killed on instinct. It skittered at me in the dark and all those hours of chopping wood in Solitude paid off when my hatchet connected with its skull. It wasn’t pretty. Also, downside to fire runes: the smell.

*Note to self: get a crossbow and convince someone to teach you how to use it.

No trolls, thank God, but I eventually had to deal with a couple skeletons. Maybe I have some Sneak in me, because I managed to stay low and got behind them. They can’t have very good eyesight, since they don’t have…eyes. How does that work?? Anyway, you can just knock them over if you give them a solid hit to the spine from behind. They still move, though. The jaws still work and the finger bones flex for a few seconds once they’re down. Ugh. The most dangerous thing was how dark it is down there. I had a torch, but it only did so much. There are pits and crumbling stairways covered in ice, I’m surprised I didn’t fall and split my head open. It took hours to find my way through the maze of corridors and chambers and half-collapsed tunnels.

I don’t know what I expected when I finally found him. It? Maybe just a mad hope that he would have answers, or insight. Something. And he did, after a fashion.

There’s something very cathartic about telling your life story to an incorporeal ball of light. Everything I can’t say to anyone else just fell out of my mouth. Not just about the college. About missing home, about the constant worry and anxiety I feel every day about doing the wrong thing or saying the wrong thing. When I finally stopped, I realized that my cheeks were soaked, and I was shaking. Shit. I guess I’ve been bottling everything up all this time. Just shoving it all down, deflecting with humor, it’s what I’ve always done. Only I’m not suppressing intimacy issues, or impostor syndrome. I’m scared, well and truly scared, in a way I never was before Skyrim. And I’ve been lucky! People have been willing to help me, and I’ve managed to stay out of trouble. But the fear is still there. I just didn’t realize how much damage I was doing to myself by not acknowledging it.

He let me finish, not that I gave him any say. The monotone voice was in my head, not projected from the light or anywhere external like I thought it would be; that was a bit jarring.

He said: “You know more than you credit, Little Traveler. The simplest answer is often correct, is it not?”

I had to think about that for a second while I wiped tears and snot into my sleeve. To me the simplest answer would be to tell the truth, but that’s a risk, one I found unacceptable, which I told him.

The Augur sort of…pulsed which might have indicated an emotional response, or he could have been flexing for all know. “Do as you will. Mention Atmah to Savos, if you choose, ask him if he still lights a candle for her.” He said. “If events unfold as you say we will speak again. I hope for your sake and those who dwell above, that we may not.” POOF.

All of that and I got maybe two minutes of dialogue out of him before he blinked into nothing. Won’t lie, I felt like an idiot for going all the way down there just for that. And who in the sweet hell is Atmah?

I sat on a bit of mossy ground, drank some water, shoved a piece of bread in my mouth and absolutely did not cry again. Nope. Not even a little bit.

Once I was done not crying, I started climbing back up through the Midden, which should have been the most boring part of the excursion. I’m either sneakier than I thought, or the stupid thing was sleeping on my first pass-through because I walked right into an ice wraith! I didn’t see it before I felt it, like a blast from an open fridge, then it was all teeth and panicky, frantic ax swings. Eventually I managed to hit it in the head and it crumpled into a smoking pile of dry ice. Probably because of the cold I didn’t realize that it had bitten me until I saw the blood spurting from my left hand. The ring finger and pinky were both just sort of dangling by a flap of skin. I managed to wrap it up with a bit of cloth and hauled ass back to the surface. Thankfully I had one of my healing potions on me or I would have really been screwed. It wasn’t strong enough to heal it completely, but the flesh knit enough to slow down the bleeding.

I’m told that I was found near the hatchway in the courtyard babbling in an incomprehensible language. I don’t remember any of it but knowing me I was probably violently cursing in English. They got me to Colette. She fixed me up and managed to save the fingers. I’ll probably have some serious scars, though. Also had to sit through several lectures about wandering off by myself with so little training.

Colette demanded that I stay in bed for at least two days to recover from all the blood loss. It gave me ample time to think about what the Augur said. Absolute truth may not be the best tactic. I don’t think that’s what he was suggesting, either. I decided to be honest about what’s relevant to the situation and not to wait. Waiting too long to do a thing just gets your ass in trouble, my run-in with Ulfric proved that to me. It took some whining, but I eventually got the Arch Mage to come speak with me. I retconned the reason I went down there.

‘Went to find the Augur because of stupid curiosity and wouldn’t you know it he had some foreboding shit to say about Saarthal. You should shut down the dig.’ And so forth. He looked like the physical embodiment of the word “skeptical” til I told him what the Augur said about lighting a candle for someone named Atmah. That got his attention, in fact I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his skull. Turns out Atmah was the head of the Labyrinthian expedition, the one only Savos survived. He still feels guilty for her death. I put on my best innocent face and waited for him to draw his own connections to Labyrinthian and what could happen at Saarthal.

I’m up and about again and word is the dig is being restricted. Only Tolfdir and Arniel are allowed in and they’re not to touch or remove anything without Savos’ expressed permission. That still leaves a slim chance that someone will go against his orders, or just sneak in there and pull some shenanigans, but at least now it’s way less likely that a certain student will stumble into the trap waiting down there. Unlike using Idgrod as my excuse I very much doubt that Savos will go looking for the Augur. It’s still a lie, or at least a half truth, that got Savos to act. And I know that it’s a slippery slope, one minute you’re lying to save lives, the next you’re justifying every decision to get your way. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be that person. Maybe that’s why I hang onto fear, it reminds me not to get comfortable, not to stop questioning myself. Fear keeps me grounded. I’m acknowledging it, but I’m not going to banish it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a longer chapter to make up for the previous one. I hope it doesn't come across as too preachy, I was waxing philosophical when I wrote this.


	14. Telling Tales

Winterhold

Fredas, 24th of Sun’s Height 4E201

Axel is back again. Some of the other apprentices dragged me from the dorm at the ass crack of dawn to go down to the inn to pick up mail. I was rewarded with a stack of letters, which Axel handed me himself. We all sat down to a round of drinks (I do not have a problem! Mead for breakfast is completely normal in Skyrim) and for the hundredth time I was forced to tell the heroic tale of how I got my fingers bitten off in the name of curiosity. Since my little misadventure I’ve suddenly developed a completely undeserved reputation as a badass. It’s deeply embarrassing. I try to downplay it, truncate the story, but without fail someone will chime in over my shoulder and make the ordeal last even longer. The other students keep embellishing and adding new details, it feels like the story has taken on a life of its own. Axel sat back and looked like he was enjoying the spectacle. He can’t possibly believe any of it. He saw me cower in the wagon on the way up here when Mette spotted that sabre cat on the road, he witnessed the extent of my marshmallowy battle prowess. I got LUCKY in the Midden. I did something stupid and I am lucky to still have a pulse. I’m not going to let myself forget that.

Once I was done rushing through my story Axel regaled us with the latest gossip. He said there are rumors of the Imperials getting close to tracking down Ulfric Stormcloak. Word is that Tulius was furious when he escaped Solitude (imagine that) and has been trying to find him since, but the slippery bugger kept disappearing. Outside of Morthal the Imperials assumed he would take the northern route and get to Dawnstar as quickly as possible, since he has known support from Skald, but now the reports say he was spotted south riding through the Reach like a bat-outta-hell, then they lost him again. The Forsworn hate his guts, so that was a risky move. Dude has balls. I still think he should choke on a dick for taking me hostage, but he’s got balls.

He’ll get captured, eventually, and that will signal the official start of the game timeline and the return of Alduin, at least I hope it still works out that way. I have been worried about that. I don’t regret interfering with Alva in Morthal, or dropping hints about Balgruuf’s son, or even that messy business with the ice wraith, since the outcome did get Saarthal restricted, but the more I think about it the more anxiety I have. I can’t know what changes could lead to disaster. Do I just keep living my life like I belong here or go camp out in a cave before I fuck up something important? Something that could lead to Alduin winning? There’s a lot of T.S. Eliot in my head right now. My last letter to Idgrod addressed all that, I read her reply when I returned to the library, but I can’t say it reassured me much.

  
_Mage’s College Winterhold_

_My Dear Esme,_

_I am pleased to hear that you arrived in Winterhold safely. Falion is busy studying the transcribed pages of the Treatise._

_He and I have spoken at length about your situation and the implications you fear. Academically it is a fascinating topic, but I’m sure you are more interested in practical ramifications. I do not have answers, only perspective._

_During your convalescence you once inferred that your people do not believe in the Divines. It is a deeply personal journey to faith, one that I have walked for many years, and I will not attempt to convince you one way or another. I will say that I have felt their influence through my Sight. I have never hidden this. We mortals cannot know the motives of the Infinite, men have gone mad attempting to do so, but I like to think that the effort they expend to reach out to us serves more than petty vanity. There is a larger goal we cannot see. If you embrace your part in it, I promise peace of mind will eventually follow._

_In the meantime, I encourage you to continue to learn from the mages. They can teach you valuable skills that may save your life someday._

_By the way I was surprised to receive another letter from the Headmaster of the Bards recently. He is keen to see you return to Solitude, so much so that he asked for my intervention in the matter. I will of course do no such thing. Your life is your own. I do think that you should lay down terms with a certain elf, one way or another, soon. To do otherwise would be verging on cruel, and cruel you are not, my friend._

_Falion continues his research when he has the time. Should he find something useful I will of course contact you as soon as possible. I feel a great weight looming, of trials soon ahead for us all._

_Stay safe._   
_Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone_   
  


It bothers me that she hasn’t said boo about the vamps in Morthal or what happened to Alva. Falion is probably working on that. I wish I could just turn my brain off and let it be, but I feel responsible for what happens now. I’m also not looking forward to explaining my newest injury to her but if I don’t, I’m sure Tolfdir will. My hand is functional, just scarred, so that’s something to be happy about. Maybe she knew, or Saw what happened, and that’s what she means by great weights looming, but I don’t think so.

As for Viarmo, it sounds like Idgrod thinks I’m leading him on. Am I? I didn’t think I was but…well shit now I don’t know. I would rather just leave it unsaid, but then I’d be ghosting him and that’s not any better. Like I don’t have way heavier issues to deal with.

Viarmo’s letter was also in the stack, though it looked worse-for-wear even compared to the others. I read that next, which I’ll pin to the rest of these pages. (I miss my notebook! I’ve had to resort to stacking loose pieces of parchment in a leather satchel I bought in Windhelm.)

  
_Mage’s College Winterhold_

_Esme,_

_Thank you for informing us of your safe arrival. Your journeys have become an amusing diversion for many, and the students look forward to your letters most eagerly. I encourage you to be as descriptive as possible. This will help sharpen your writing skills and will hopefully satisfy the curious, who often bombard me with questions I cannot answer._

_Evette San sends a bottle of spiced wine with this message along with her well-wishes. I hope the bottle stays intact on the long journey. The Burning of King Olaf Festival is set for the end of Last Seed. I sincerely hope to see you in attendance if you are able. The Festival is the pride of the college and I would be gratified to know that you were able to enjoy it. Bendt has promised to make a truly obscene amount of boiled crème treats. Alternatively, if your newfound studies keep you in Winterhold please inform me when you will next be in Whiterun. I would enjoy meeting up again, perhaps without any drunken brawls this time._

_Yours,_   
_Viarmo_

He has a sense of humor! Who knew? Also, the wine was okay. What I don’t understand is why the Festival hasn’t been cancelled yet. Torygg is dead, so why is it still on? Maybe it took so long to get the letter that Elisef hadn’t made any declaration about it yet when he wrote it? I’m going to go with that. Because I don’t want to believe that Viarmo would lie just to get me back to Solitude. Still it would be nice to see everyone. I want to stop in Morthal to visit Idgrod and speak with Falion, then go on to Solitude and pick up my stuff. If Falion has any useful insight by then maybe he will go with me and check out the mirror himself. That would have to be easier on him than trying to figure the thing out just through vague historical references and my less than helpful description. The room was dark, after all and that was nearly six months ago!

The third letter I received was from Jarl Balgruuf thanking me for the insight about his son. Unfortunately, I had a little accident while practicing my fire spell and that letter is no more. Faralda assures me that my eyebrows will grow back in no time.


	15. Domestics

Winterhold

Sundas, 26th of Sun’s Height 4E201

Money is and isn’t a problem. Of the hundred septims Idgrod gave me for “incidentals” I have thirteen left. Like being at the Bard’s College it’s a relief not to have to worry about food or tuition, but you’re still responsible for most other consumables, including alchemy ingredients, parchment, ink, soul gems if you’re into enchanting, etc. I’ve blown most of the gold on writing supplies (I keep academic notes separate from journal entries) and decent meals.

I miss Bendt’s cooking so much! No one actually cooks here. Some of the faculty use their personal alembics to brew tea and soup, but that’s dangerous if you’re not an expert. Great way to poison yourself. Students are expected to feed and clean up after themselves, one way or another. Since the attitude among most mages is if you can’t do it with magic then it’s not worth doing domestics tend to be low on everyone’s priority list.

Rumor has it that years ago a novice tried to Conjure up a servant to clean up after him and ended up summoning a dremora by mistake. Supposedly the dremora wore the student’s head as a hat and went on a rampage through the Hall until the Arch Mage banished it back to whatever realm it came from. Savos will neither confirm nor deny this. Nice to know that campus cautionary tales are a thing no matter what universe you’re in.

I got sick of eating half-frozen veggies and bread from the inn (it has a weird aftertaste that I can’t identify) and eventually found the kitchen, if you can even call it that. There’s an open pantry with a single oven on the upper level of the Hall of Countenance. The room is practically an icebox when the oven isn’t lit, so the produce Axel brings and things like flour and butter keep well without magic. After hours of wood chopping, ingredient gathering, and looking for something that would make a semi decent rolling pin I managed to make flat bread. That naturally led to pizza. Well, as close to pizza as I could get. There’s nothing that can really dup as oregano, but I still managed to make a decent tomato sauce with tons of garlic, onion, and a little frost miriam. I had to settle for sharper cheese than I’m used to and substituted smoked horker meat for sausage. It was okay, like the sort of thing you improvise as an after-school snack when your mom won’t spring for bagel bites. The apprentices were divided between being baffled by the lopsided, slightly burnt monstrosity I made and thrilled that there was something hot to eat.

Unfortunately, now they all think they can make requests. Maybe I’ll start charging, that would bolster my funds for when I need to travel again. That should be in about ten days, give or take. I missed Axel thanks to a migraine. I knew it would happen eventually, but I still had that “oh no” moment last night before supper where I felt it coming on and couldn’t do anything about it.

There is a tea Birna sells made of comfrey, valerian, and willow bark; ingredients that have to be imported so it’s not cheap. I bought it anyway. Ha. It’s about as strong as children’s aspirin and as effective as tossing ice cubes at a bonfire. Healing potions don’t do much either, so I had to go with the old school method of lying in a dark room, shoving cotton in my ears, and waiting it out.

Colette had some words of warning after treating my hand about abusing healing potions anyway. Apparently, overuse can make them just as addictive as skooma. She called it “Warrior’s Waste.” There’s also a pervasive idea here that migraines are a curse caused by Hermaeus Mora. Colette even asked me, dead serious, if I’d made any deals with the Daedra. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so nauseous at the time. I hope this is just a superstition.

Until Axel comes back I’m going to concentrate on squeezing as much knowledge out of the instructors as possible. Mostly I’ve been bugging Colette, Faralda, and Drevis. My grasp of fire manipulation is pretty solid, but I can’t hit a target to save my life. The fireball just sort of peters out mid-throw. I still haven’t been able to get Invisibility to work at all and Drevis isn’t exactly forthcoming on what I’m doing wrong; I suspect he doesn’t know. He said the Illusion school is tricky because the spells often center around the caster’s emotional state. So, I’m either too emotional or not emotional enough to become invisible…sure, okay that’s helpful, I guess. Maybe I should try meditating? I’ll put that on the back burner for now.

Colette is helping me with basic healing. I hadn’t thought about it before, but she mentioned that I might be better off concentrating on just one school, that tends to be easier for beginners. She probably has a point, I just really, really, reeeeeally want to be invisible…and to get rid of a migraine without drugs. I feel like these are modest life goals.

I wish I had written ahead to Idgrod and Viarmo before Axel left. I’ll just have to wait now. Hiring a courier is expensive and the only one in Winterhold was Ranmir, but he’s “retired” as Dagur the innkeeper put it. I’ll file that away, “retired” means “unemployed alcoholic.” I wouldn’t trust him not to lose the letters in a snowdrift anyway. That sounds less than charitable, I know he is the way he is because he’s in a depression spiral, but his sister doesn’t deserve all the crap he gives her. If not for Birna and Dagur the village probably wouldn’t even exist. They really don’t get enough credit for essentially being the backbone of Winterhold by keeping up trade between Windhelm and the College. This far north large-scale farming is pretty much impossible, hunting and fishing are dangerous, so if the convoy didn’t come regularly to bring food to Winterhold and things like enchanted weapons and potions back to Windhelm everyone would have to decide whether to stay and starve or leave altogether. Whether they like it or not everyone knows that they need the mages.

Tirdas, 28th of Sun’s Height 4E201

I don’t know what possessed me to agree to be Breylna’s test subject. It jogged a vague memory, but I got caught up in her enthusiasm. She was sure that she could remove the ice wraith scars from my hand. Nothing turned green, and I am fairly certain I stayed human, but I’m of the opinion that when your fingertips turn black it’s time to see a professional. I’m sure Colette is getting sick of me.

Can you call a place chaotically boring? Because that’s how I feel about the Mage’s College. The last month has been mostly quiet days studying in the library, walks along the battlements (when it isn’t snowing the view is amazing) and low-key blowing off steam sessions at the inn. Meanwhile there’s a whole dungeon full of monsters beneath our feet. Every demonstration in the Hall of Elements is a spectacular light show and every mage can do things that shouldn’t be possible. Some days it feels like summer camp at Hogwarts. I feel bad that most students are scared shitless. They don’t come out and say it to each other, or the instructors, but for some reason people think it’s safe to tell me their inner most fears. Mom was right, I should have been a shrink. Between the distrust Nords have for them and normal worries about being good enough to graduate I can completely sympathize. How many nights did I lie awake wondering if my degree was worth all the work and debt I was racking up?

Being a mage isn’t exactly a safe occupation either. Not that there is such a thing in Skyrim, even bards have to be careful. Alda once mentioned that young graduates are often approached to be infiltrators. I thought she was blowing smoke up my ass at the time, but several other people have confirmed since that bards make excellent spies. It’s sort of expected that if you’re a full-blown bard you’re probably someone’s agent. With mages it’s kind of the same, every court and influential organization wants their own token mage. It makes sense, use your own personal bard to spy on your enemies, then use your mage to guard against, or attack said enemy. Puts a whole knew dimension on the politics of Tamriel that I never thought about before.

I don’t really know where I stand in any of this. I am not a bard and never will be. As Aia once so eloquently put it I have the “voice of a distressed horker.” And I pretty much suck at every instrument besides the lap drum. I’m not a mage either. I can learn spells if I really concentrate, but that’s nothing compared to the natural mages here. Some people are just better at it than others with little to no effort. Breylna said her family knew she would be a mage before she could walk, lit her aunt’s dress on fire while having a teething fit. That must be a scary day for a parent. One minute your baby is just a baby, the next WHOOSH! Honey, we need a new roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has stuck with me so far, I have been trying to post about once a week, but real life keeps interrupting, as it tends to do. I hope all this time in Winterhold hasn't been too boring, things will pick up for Esme shortly. She will absolutely hate me for some of it, but since she only exists in my head (I guess I should update the tags that this is NOT a self-insert) she'll just have to forgive me.


	16. The Waiting Game

Winterhold

Fredas, 7th of Last Seed 4E201

I saw Ancano briefly this morning. At least I’m pretty sure it was him; a tall, white-haired high elf in dark robes was walking with Savos and Mirabelle toward the main Hall as I was leaving the dorm. Hopefully I won’t have to actually talk to him before I leave. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself from getting salty with him.

You’re welcome for saving your greedy, power-hungry, Altmer spy ass, you sour-faced dipshit.

I hope he doesn’t do anything stupid. I never pegged him as the type to get his hands dirty, but he might try to convince a student or get one of his Thalmor agents to sneak into Saarthal for him. I did NOT almost lose my fingers so he could undermine all my work! Since the Midden I’ve been quietly sowing paranoia about the dig among the students. I want them to distrust it, even be scared by it, if only to keep them safe. It’s amazing how the odd comment spoken with sincerity can take root in people’s minds. “I heard a rumor” strikes again! Only this time I’m going to be well away before shit gets real. And everything that I’ve said is 100% true. I really have heard of terrible things lurking in caves and crypts under Skyrim, everyone has. Draugr have a weird place of honor in the hearts of Nords. They’re feared and reviled but also respected for what they once were. Some even pity them. And if they really are humans who swore loyalty to the dragon priests and then were doomed in death, then yeah that’s really sad. Did they have a choice? Maybe some did, but I’ll bet a lot of them just did what they thought they had to. That sort of “doomed to wander for all eternity” thing isn’t so glamorous when your soul is tied to a shambling corpse. I haven’t seen any in person and I hope I never do. The skeletons in the Midden were close enough, thank you very much.

Waiting this long for news is infuriating. If I’m stranded here for much longer I’ll need to find an actual occupation. I can’t live on Idgrod’s charity forever and I wouldn’t want to. I know I can sell potions, at least.

Axel was due back today. I spent most of the afternoon milling around in town, trading potions for traveling gear with Birna, and listening to Nelacar drone on about harmonic interference in respect to tonal deference (which I think translates to “sounds that get in the way of other sounds”) but the wagon never showed up. He might have been delayed. Dagur promised to send word when he turns up at the inn.

As valuable as my time here has been, I’m looking forward to returning to a more hospitable climate. I like snow as much as the next person, but it’s summer and I still can’t walk outside in less than two layers without feeling like my toes are going to fall off. At least the main halls and living quarters at the college are fitted with runes that keep the chill away. The villagers rely on fire. Since Nords run hot they don’t seem to think that it’s a big deal. Lucky bastards.

Wood is a precious resource this far north, so mostly they burn “chips” I found out, which is just a polite term for dried poop. Fire is for cooking or boiling snow; they don’t worry about heating their sleeping spaces. Of course, once I learned where the “chips” come from I stopped eating at the inn altogether. I always wondered where Ranmir gets his drinking money when Birna cuts him off. Now I wish I didn’t know.

When word got around that I’m going to be leaving soon a few people started approaching me with fair wells and little goodbye gifts. Tolftir gave me a spare set of Novice robes, since I like them so much. The robes are much warmer than the simple wool dresses most women wear and infinitely more comfortable than armor. Colette gave me a Restoration scroll for quick healing; in case I get into trouble. She explained that I must focus on my intent to use it, just like when casting. The only difference is that it’s the scroll that knows what to do. It will draw the initial energy from me and then disintegrate as soon as the spell is cast. Unfortunately, I can’t test it without destroying it, so if I’m in a tight spot I’ll just have to trust that it will work. I’ve hidden it way down in my bag for safe keeping.

Urag handed me my very own pocket dictionary with what might have been a smirk (those tusks, man, they’re gnarly but so damn cool). I hugged him for that and for the first time he showed an emotion other than resigned annoyance. After a beat he sort of snort-chuckled and gave me a one-armed squeeze back. He said “You treat books with respect. You’re welcome in my library whenever you need.” Highest compliment anyone could probably get out of him, I think. I damn near got misty eyed over it.

Faralda gave me a plain silver ring to help boost my Destruction spell (she taught me Ice, but for some reason I’m not taking to it as well as the fire spell). I asked her if she wanted anything for it, but she waved me off saying she has a cask full of trinkets set aside for enchanting, this one was a practice piece she has no use for. I learned in one of Sergius’ lectures that you really can enchant anything, but it’s more valuable afterwards if it’s something useful like a weapon or clothing. It would be considered a terrible waste and kind of a mage faux pas to enchant a rock or a hairbrush. Something else to remember for later. I am not comfortable with enchanting, on principle, but I might be forced to use it at some point if only to recharge a weapon. I’m better at potions than anything else. It’s like cooking, except if you screw up the results can kill people. So, yeah exactly like cooking.

I’m not exactly universally liked in Winterhold, but I think at the very least I’m looked at as an amusing oddity by most. That being said Nirya, who hasn’t said a word to me since I arrived, came up to me yesterday and demanded that I “explain myself.” When I asked her what she meant she scoffed and said “If you’re a Breton I’m an argonian housewife. Your accent is incomprehensible, your magic infantile, and your grasp of basic elemental theory almost non-existent. So, I shall ask you again. Explain yourself.”

If I hadn’t had all this time to round out my backstory, I would have probably just stood there with my mouth hanging open. During my time in the library I made a point of studying an atlas, one of Urag’s treasures that you have to handle with kid gloves, and read up on regional history. It would be suspicious to completely change the story Idgrod came up with, so I embellished it. I put on my best poker face and gave Nirya an explanation I’ve rehearsed in my head about a hundred times. Since I don’t know how well I can keep trusting my memory I’ll just put it down here as well:

“I was born in a small village near Stonetooth on the island of Betony. My father was a native, whose farming family (surname Emard) had been there since the island was retaken from the Orcs in the 3rd era. My mother is an Imperial, the daughter of a blacksmith from Colovia (surname Gallus). They met in Daggerfall during the Mad Pelagius festival where her family had set up a booth to sell souvenirs. My mother did not approve of magic and did her best to discourage its use. In fact, growing up in a farming community, I received very little education at all. My father died when I was fifteen, leaving my mother, myself, one brother and one sister. Being the eldest I was expected to help support the family, which I did for the next several years by working as a cook and nanny for a wealthy family in Betony City. When my mother decided to relocate us to Colovia to live near her remaining family I went with them. Shortly after that I met a soldier named Drevor, who was originally from Morthal and participating in an Imperial training exercise. We hit it off, married and I returned with him to Solitude. Sadly, we were only married six weeks before he was sent to rejoin his regiment. A few weeks later he was killed in a Forsworn attack near Dragonsbridge. After I was widowed, I worked for the Bard’s College to support myself. Jarl Idgrod, who knew Drevor and his family, later offered me a position as her personal maid/assistant and sent me to Winterhold to do research for her.”

Check my research, Nirya, I DARE you.

Okay, granted I’ll be in trouble if anyone goes looking for a record of my Breton or Imperial family, but I’ll just have to deal with that as it comes. I need to ask Idgrod for a last name to give my fake dead husband.

I left out the kidnapping in Solitude, because I don’t want to go down that rabbit hole. And as a button to close up the conversation I said, oh so self-deprecatingly, “Faralda thinks I exaggerate when I say that the dialect of Betony is unlike the rest of High Rock. I am embarrassed by my accent, to be honest.”

Nirya stiffened at Faralda’s name (as I hoped) and changed her tune immediately. “Well,” she said “I for one would never shame anyone like that. I’m so sorry for your loss. Oh, look I see Phinis across the courtyard, I really must speak with him, excuse me.”

Maybe she’ll drop the attitude now. I figure the backstory shouldn’t be too hard to remember, since most of the family stuff is close to my own past. Except dad didn’t die, he moved to Syracuse after the divorce. And I did work as a nanny, but that was to get myself through college. It’s the details that will trip me up, I’m sure. Emard seemed like a good enough Breton name, I’ve seen it mentioned innocuously in books here and there and it seems about as common as Smith or Jones. Welcome to the world, Esme Emard, I wonder what will become of you.

Sundas, 9th of Last Seed 4E201

Still no Axel, I’m starting to get worried. Dagur doesn’t know anything, except that he’s running low on mead and ale. Ranmir may start a riot if stocks aren’t replenished soon.

Bought 4 gold in blue mountain flower extract off Enthir. Gathered imp stool from lower levels (didn’t actually go into the Midden, but the tunnels just outside).

Sold four distilled bottles of restoration potion back to Enthir for 10 each.

36 gold profit.

Middas, 12th of Last Seed 4E201

No Axel, no word from Windhelm, everyone is getting nervous. If I could afford a horse I probably could have ridden to Morthal by now.

Turdas, 13th of Last Seed 4E201

Finally had a little success with Invisibility! Breylna and I have been practicing together, to give each other feedback, and she said I went translucent for a few seconds. Progress! Sweet, distracting progress!!

Sundas, 16th of Last Seed 4E201

Enthir of all people was the one who finally had enough (I think he’s waiting for a shipment of stuff to fence) and announced yesterday that he’s going to head to Windhelm on foot. Me and Onmund will be going with him. At least in a group we will be better able to protect each other. I’m more than ready, my things have been packed and waiting by the door for more than a week. We leave at dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has anyone else ever noticed that no one in Morthal, except the jarl, have last names. Like, no one. I could find no explanation for this...


	17. The Middle of Frozen Nowhere

Mordas, 17th of Last Seed 4E201

We set out at dark-thirty before the sun even thought about coming up. Onmund had to wake me. I still have no idea how people tell time here, it’s almost instinctual. An instinct I clearly lack. Dagur (after being nagged by his wife I suspect) supplied us with travel rations in exchange for taking the pile of waiting mail with us to Windhelm. Onmund insisted on carrying the letters. I can’t decide if that was a gallant gesture, a practical one since he is the biggest and strongest of the three of us, or “other.” I don’t like “other,” it makes the worst possibilities pop up in my head, undeserved because he hasn’t done anything to make me suspect that he’s up to something at all. 

I haven’t had many conversations with Onmund, though I’ve seen him around. I think he arrived at the college not long after I did. Enthir on the other hand makes a point of “making himself available” to everyone. I wasn’t two steps out of the dorm on day one when he introduced himself, and his services, unprompted and with very little effort at being sneaky. He’s a sleaze, but at least he doesn’t try to hide it. Makes it easy to understand his motivations. Meanwhile I can’t get a bead on the vanilla Nord and it’s annoying me.

The road south is compacted snow with pulverized rock underneath. We followed the carriage tracks left by Axel’s thousands of past trips with Enthir in the lead holding a ball of light above us til the sun finally came up. They won’t let me lead or trail behind, but keep me between them, which I’m fine with. A month of sitting on my ass studying has done me no favors physically. Though casting does seem to burn calories my leg and back muscles haven’t gotten much love lately and I’m feeling it now. On foot, assuming we don’t run into anything that plans on murdering us, it will take three or four days to get to Windhelm. There isn’t much to look at. Mountains to the right, icy white hills on the left. Snow glare is a problem, but Enthir thought of that and brought “eye flairs” that he just happened to have. (I get “they fell off the back of a truck” vibes, but whatever.) They’re made of some sort of soft wood with narrow slits carved for each eye and little leather loops on either side to go around the ears. Friggin’ genius, really. They rub the back of your ears and bridge of your nose after a while though, and obscure your peripheral vision, so I’m even more paranoid about getting pounced by a sabre cat or a troll. 

We walked until the sun was at high noon (at least I can tell that much), munched some elk jerky, and went right back to trudging. There wasn’t much conversation, mostly because Enthir and I were huffing into our hoods trying to keep up with Onmund. I haven’t been this sore since those early days in Solitude. Seems like forever ago. 

As the afternoon wore on I could have sworn I heard something, like thunder from very far away. Onmund insisted it was just a rockslide further up the mountain. Rockslides and avalanches. Another thing we have to be cautious about. Enthir sneezed this morning and I thought Onmund was going to bludgeon him to death. It’s summer, so the threat of half the mountain coming down is very real. What if that’s what happened to Axel? I kept expecting to come across his buried wagon as we travelled. He’s a seasoned veteran of the road, but that wouldn’t mean anything against two tons of ice and rock…

We saw nothing, though, at least today. By sundown Enthir spotted a cave with those sharp elf eyes of his and after checking it for anything living (I will have to ask him to teach me that spell) we hunkered down for the night. It isn’t so much a cave as a rock outcrop that has been dug into, probably by miners, then abandoned. I would love to have a fire, but the boys say no. Even out here it would be too conspicuous, and there really isn’t anything to burn anyway. Dinner was hard tack, more jerky, and a mead slushy Onmund made by filling a sheep’s bladder bag with snow and pouring half of one of the bottles Dagur sent with us into it. Shake vigorously and serve. He said it was a trick to make the mead last longer, while keeping us hydrated. Just eating snow lowers your body temperature too much. M--- 

Tirdas, 18th of Last Seed 4E201

They made me put out my light and go to bed rather abruptly after dinner last night. Onmund caught a glimpse of my journal and asked what language I was writing. He didn’t like me trying to change the subject by asking why he volunteered to go to Windhelm. He said his family let him go to the college as if it was a death sentence (oh, that’s right) and he needed to assure them that he’s okay. Then he immediately switched the topic back to my writing. I had to bullshit on the fly about it being a dialect specific to Betony, something my father taught me, which is also why my accent is so odd. Enthir wasn’t particularly interested, but Onmund kept pushing for details as we travelled today. What sort of farm was it that I grew up on? Were the seasons much different than Skyrim? Were there many mages in our community, being Bretan and all? And so on. 

I spent the whole day doing mental gymnastics. Thank you, Urag, for giving me free reign in your library, you beautiful green bastard, or I would have been completely unprepared for the onslaught of questions. There isn’t anything else to do but talk anyway. Talk, walk, stop to eat, repeat until sundown. This is going to be a long trip. Eventually I got Enthir to start reminiscing about Morrowind, that bought me a few hours of peace. Being a former farm boy Onmund wanted to know everything there is about growing mushroom structures. 

The further south we get the less snow and the more mud there is to slog through. Hoo-fucking-ray. I’m going to have squelching bits of grit between my toes til the end of my days. Any people we’ve seen so far have been at a distance. With all the bandits in the game I’m kind of shocked that no one has even tried to rob us. 

My jaw hurts from chewing jerky. I want soup. Just plain ol’ soup. And a grilled cheese. And a hunk of dark chocolate. 

Turdas, 20th of Last Seed 4E201

We finally reached Windhelm this morning. Nothing much happened on the trip down here. We saw a few wolves, but I managed a fireball big enough to scare them off. I was ridiculously happy with myself. There were more and more people the further south we got, including a group I thought I recognized hooting at each other and holding bottles of mead to the sky like a drunken offering to the gods. 

The city hasn’t changed much outwardly, except that things seem a little more…charged? I can’t think of a better word, everyone seems anxious, like they’re waiting for something big to happen. I wanted to ask the stable master if he’s seen Axel, but neither he or his wife were anywhere to be found and I was too tired to wait around for them.

Enthir announced that he wasn’t going to be staying at the Inn with us just as we passed the main gates, said he has a cousin in the Grey Quarter who will put him up for free. Onmund gave him a very dirty look. I had to jump in as the reasonable party, telling Enthir that he was welcome to change his mind, but we understood. We all agreed to meet at the Inn for dinner once we had a chance to clean up and rest. (Nords eat five times a day. I like this about them, but it means I have to pay special attention to the word they’re using for which meal, so I know when to show up. Even then I get confused.)

After Enthir trotted off Onmund and I went on to the Inn to get rooms. I couldn’t resist pulling him aside and asked what was wrong. He played dumb. That pissed me off. 

“No.” I said. “Enthir made you angry when he said he was going to stay in the Grey Quarter. Why?”

He fidgeted with his pack and shifted from one foot to another. It would have been cute, if he were a five-year-old. When I didn’t back down he finally sighed and admitted that he had traded a family heirloom to Enthir, and regretted it now. He was afraid that Enthir was going to pawn it in Windhelm before he could convince him to trade back. I could have face-palmed right then. The amulet, of course, one of the bajillion little things I’m likely to forget from the game. 

“If he sells it, I may never be able to get it back,” he whined, “and if my mother ever finds out…” 

Internally I was playing the world’s smallest violin, but I did my best to put on a reassuring face and told him I would talk to Enthir at dinner. Why not? The worst he can do is say no. 

We settled into our rooms and for the first time in four days I was able to peel off my robes and have a wash. Ye Gods I miss showers! The Candlehearth doesn’t even have bathtubs. I had to settle for a basin of hot water and a scrubbing cloth. At least they have soap. Once my skin was as clean as it was going to get, I dunked my robes and ran them over a wooden washboard. The water turned dark grey. I thought about trying to dry the robes with fire but decided not to risk it. My control is still not great, and this place is a tinderbox with all the straw on the floors and stuffing the mattresses. For the first time in weeks I dug out the wool dress Idgrod gave me. It’s a little baggy now. I’m not sure if I just didn’t cinch it correctly, or if I’ve dropped a few more pounds since I last wore it. 

After a nap I wandered upstairs and who should I see sitting by the fire with a tankard and a scowl but my buddy Axel! I was so happy to see him alive I might have squeed. Just a little.

I’ve never seen the old man so livid. Not at me, but at what happened to him and what he’s still dealing with. I didn’t wait for the others; I demanded the story and he was only too happy to oblige once I bought us another round. 

Axel’s last run west was utterly routine. He picked up one passenger in Whiterun and some cargo like normal and headed back to Windhelm. He was about to cross the river east when he was hijacked by a group of Legionnaires and that’s when everything went to shit. They demanded that he surrender his carriage for “official Imperial use” and forced him to make a detour all the way to Ivarstead. There they dumped Axel and his cargo but took his passenger prisoner because he supposedly matched the description of a known thief from Haafingar. Then they took off east, leaving Axel with no choice but to hang out and wait for the next carriage to take him to Riften. I was surprised by how vehemently Axel hates Ivarstead. He called it a “boring little village populated by fools and louts.” 

The route between Ivarstead and Riften isn’t a particularly popular one so he had to wait a week just for the wagon to show up. Then it was another week and a half to get to Riften, switch carriages, and head back north to Windhelm. He managed to convince the stable master to use his own cart to take supplies to Winterhold, which is why we didn’t see Ulundil at the stables when we arrived this morning. I guess we must have just missed him, but I didn’t see him on the road. Maybe there’s another route I don’t know about. 

Now Axel is stuck waiting for his grievance over the loss of his horse and wagon to be reviewed by the steward, since the incident technically took place in his Hold. I would be pissed off too. Though I had a hard time expressing sympathy when alarm bells were piercing my brain from the inside out. It’s finally happening. Imperials this far east, in need of wagons, then the thundering noises we heard on the road…What if the passenger they took prisoner was the supposed horse thief? Or the Dragonborn! Holy crap on a cracker he could already be in Whiterun by now! 

I must have looked panicky because Axel pushed another drink at me with his eyes narrowed and assured me that it was inconvenient, but not the end of the world. 

Not the end of the world. OMFG. That was too much for me, I had to find a latrine to throw up in and fast. 

Onmund and Enthir showed up by the time I was done having a panic puke. Axel regaled them with his tale, which gave me a second chance to ask more questions about his former passenger. I tried to play it off that because I used to live in Solitude, I might have known him. I don’t think Axel bought it but gave me a description anyway. Looked like an Imperial, had that sharp, dark look to him, but 100% human. Seemed like a decent enough fellow. Showed up on foot like most people do wearing the sort of practical wool garb a travelling farmer or merchant might wear. Said his name was Antonius, didn’t give a last name. 

Definitely not the horse thief, then. Okay, so the DB might be an Imperial named Antonius. Fuuuuck! I'm not ready for this yet. 

I was so distracted I almost forgot to talk to Enthir about the stupid amulet. All through dinner Onmund kept pouting til I remembered. Ugh. Giant toddler, that one. After some coaxing and a generous amount of mead Enthir finally agreed to give the trinket back in exchange for a favor from me. Fine, good, whatever I should have pried and asked what kind of favor, but my mind was elsewhere. I'm running out of time. I don’t want to be within a thousand yards of Ulfric Stormcloak (AKA Kidnappy McPrickerson) and I certainly don’t want to be anywhere near Whiterun when that first dragon attacks.

What I wouldn’t give for a fast travel option to Solitude right now. As it is there’s no way I can afford a horse and if I’m right about this being The Beginning, then Axel is never seeing his wagon again. RIP to his poor, innocent horse. That leaves walking the rest of the way to Whiterun. Since Onmund and Enthir are going back to the college and Axel needs to stay in Windhelm til his grievance is settled, I’m stuck til I can find a caravan to go with, or something. Axel promised to ask around, he knows a lot of people here. 

After dinner I slunk off to bed and bolted my door. It feels good to be alone. I can have one anxiety attack after another without any judgey stares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hanging with me, everyone and sorry for the delay. I meant to post earlier, but...things. So many things!! BTW if you've never seen ancient sunglasses, shout out to the Inuits, Google it. They're neat looking.


	18. Sarah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger warning: murder and mutilation*

Winterhold  
Fredas, 21st of Last Seed 4E201

Didn’t get much sleep last night, too busy obsessing over the timeline and wondering what sort of person this Antonius guy might be. Axel exchanged only a handful of words with him, so that doesn’t give me a full picture at all. His character will drastically affect how things go from here on out. Assuming it’s him, that is, and the Imperials didn’t capture any other rando’s on the way. 

It also occurred to me at some time around…we’ll call it 2 AM, that because Ulundil took Axel’s cargo up to Winterhold before I got here any letters addressed to me went with him. If Viarmo wasn’t freaking out over not hearing from me two weeks ago he probably is now and there’s not a whole hell of a lot I can do about it. I miss hearing from him. And Idgrod, but that’s a little different. 

I rolled out of my too firm bed this morning with a crick in my neck and clumps of fur from the bearskin coverlet stuck in my hair. It was better than sleeping on bedrolls with Enthir and Onmund huddling on either side of me, but not by much. Onmund is super warm and neither of them shed. 

Axel is staying at the Candlehearth too, at a discount apparently. After he told his tale of woe to Elda the owner and she realized he’s going to be having an extended stay she knocked a few septims off his rate. He treated me to a spread of hot cider, savory barley porridge with leeks, bread and butter, and salted salmon for breakfast. Luxurious after a month at the college. I tried prying more details out of Axel as we ate. He gets this scrunched eye glare on his face when he’s thinking. Makes him look like a baked apple. 

“You really think you know that Antonius fellow, eh?” he asked, still scrunching. 

I shrugged, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, and gave him a maybe. I met all sorts of people when I was with the bards. That’s what they do, interact with people. 

He harrumphed at me, a real proper old man harrumph with a mouthful of barley squeaking in his teeth. He couldn’t tell me anything more about Antonius, but that didn’t stop him from giving his thoughts on bards and Imperials. Being a Nord, he doesn’t think much of either group. Being a cranky veteran cab driver, he doesn’t think much of people in general, but gives me a pass because I “don’t put it on.” I’m not sure what that means. 

By the time Onmund wandered out of bed the morning was half gone, not that any of us have anything to do right now. At least he’s happy about the amulet. Maybe too happy. He kept asking if I needed anything, so I finally took a chapter out of Enthir’s book and just told him he could owe me a favor. 

Axel announced that he had some people to see and that he would meet me back for dinner with an update if he hears anything useful. That left me with fuck all to do but wander around Windhelm with Onmund trailing me like a puppy. I thought about sending a letter to Idgrod by courier but scrapped that plan when I found out the going rate to Morthal is thirty septims. THIRTY! Elda didn’t bat an eye when she told me. The further the distance the higher the rate, that’s how it is. If you don’t know where in Skyrim the addressee is then it’s a flat one hundred gold with a money back guarantee. What a bargain, except that I have exactly twenty-two septims to my name. Not counting that ring Faralda gave me. 

Having nothing better to do I decided to go to the Market, because browsing is free. I was trying to decipher the very swirly title of a book at one of the second-hand stalls when someone tapped my shoulder, someone who turned out to be a guard. That got my hackles up til I realized it was Juni! I had to beg her forgiveness for not being able to write and told her all about what happened to Axel, though she had already heard most of the story. It was from her that I learned that the Butcher murders have already started. Of course, they’re not calling him the Butcher, yet. Juni didn’t know much, only that there’s been one victim, some poor girl so torn up the body hasn’t been identified. She couldn’t have been a local, then. Someone would have reported a disappearance. 

Juni made me promise not to go off by myself while I’m in the city. After she left to go back on her rounds Onmund asked me why I looked like I just swallowed a bee. It’s called “duty of care,” sweetie. I didn’t say that. I thought it, grumpily. I can’t sit on my hands and hope that the DB will show up. I’m going to have to figure out how to get Calixto arrested before he kills anyone else. 

We continued meandering, which gave me time to formulate a plan. 

1: Ditch the farm boy.  
2: Get into the Hall of the Dead and see if there’s anything noteworthy about the first victim.  
3: Case Calixto’s shop.

Of course, the best laid plans of mice and men are bound to go tits up when your companion is an honor obsessed Nord. Onmund didn’t hear the whole conversation with Juni, but he gleaned enough gossip in the Market to know that there’s a killer on the loose and refused to go back to the Inn without me. He’s green, not dumb. I was not looking forward to talking my way into the Hall of the Dead anyway, and even less enthusiastic about perusing a dead body, but that’s where every 21st century crime drama I’ve ever seen starts, so here we go, Season one of CSI: Windhelm. 

I chickened out though and decided to go to Calixto’s shop first. I think I remember that there was evidence in a trunk in his house that you couldn’t lockpick in the game, but I hoped that wouldn’t be the case IRL. We paid our two septims for the lame tour and I kept looking for anything incriminating, anything I could use later, while the old man blathered on about Ysgrimor’s soup spoon. It’s unnerving how normal the guy seems. He’s perfected the “I’m just a harmless shopkeeper” routine, that’s for sure. 

I did spot a chest on the second floor out of the corner of my eye. That has to be it, but there’s no getting up to it without being seen, it’s all open to the lower level. I’ll either need to sneak in when Calixto is out and hope that the lock really isn’t unpickable or find another smoking gun. Hjerim is still in possession of the Shatter-Shields, so he hasn’t turned it into a Frankenstein torture dungeon yet. That means that he probably did his butchering somewhere else, so if I can find where that is it might be enough to link him to the murder and get him put away. 

Two gold wasted, I decided to pull up my big girl panties and get on with the next step. 

I told Onmund, and by extension the priestess of Arkay, Helgird, when we entered the Hall of the Dead that I wanted to see if I could identify the victim. Helgird just shrugged and showed us to the cavernous vault where the body had been laid out. 

I’ve seen bodies of older people before, embalmed and slathered in makeup, laying in wooden caskets like human taxidermy displays. That shit is unsettling enough. This though, was a whole new experience. Onmund went pale and kept his distance while Helgird pulled back the filthy sheet covering the stone slab. I understood immediately why the first victim had never been identified. Her face was gone. She’d been scalped from the base of the skull forward, then someone had carefully flayed the skin all the way down her neck to the clavicle so it could be removed in one piece. He even took the time to get her eyes and ears. Her hands at the wrist were also missing. The rest of her was untouched Helgird made a point of mentioning (meaning there was no sign that she had been violated before or after death). 

At that point I was channeling my inner Clarice Starling. Be professional and respectful. Do not throw up. 

I asked Helgird if she noticed anything unusual while preparing the body. The priestess pursed her lips and said, “I wrote a full report and sent it to the steward. Whether he bothers to read it is none of my concern. To summarize, this was a healthy woman anywhere from twenty to thirty years of age, judging by her teeth and skin. The hands, scalp, and face were removed with delicate tools. This was not the work of someone in a rush. Her feet show some mild frostbite, probably because of the odd shoes she was wearing, very ill-suited for Skyrim weather. There is also a very fine tattoo on her right side, expensive work to be sure.”

Helgird pointed to the tattoo on the other side of the table from me before going to retrieve the woman’s clothes from a basket nearby. My throat closed up when I rounded the table. Whoever this woman was, she had the Deathly Hallows on her hip with the word “Always” in cursive beneath it. 

The clothes in the basket were so similar to what I had been wearing when I first arrived in Skyrim it was shocking. Helgird laid a pair of blood-soaked jeans and a baseball tee on the empty slab next to the body, then a black sports bra with a snapped and frayed strap, and a pair of tattered black and white Converse with the socks shoved inside. The shoes, socks, and jeans up to the shins were also crusted over with mud. Wherever she had emerged from she’d tried to find help, probably crossed the marshy tundra looking for civilization, only to find Calixto…

I was doing this out of a sense of decency before. Now I want revenge. Revenge for this girl I might have passed on the street, or sat in a class with, whose fate might have been mine if circumstances had been only slightly different. It doesn’t matter if she was a blood relative or a complete stranger, she was from home, and she didn’t deserve to be carved up like a fucking turkey. 

I claimed the body. It cost me every septim I had left, but I didn’t care. Paupers without family get cremated in an unmarked pit outside the city. That is unacceptable. She didn’t have a wallet on her, but there was a heart shaped keychain with a broken clasp in one of the jeans pockets. The name Sarah was printed in purple resin on it, with little pink flowers. Sarah is getting a real burial. I declared her a cousin to satisfy Helgird and give her something to write on the death certificate. 

It was dark by the time all the arrangements were made and I trudged back to the Inn, leaving Helgird to inter the body in the catacombs beneath Windhelm. Onmund hung back, completely silent the whole way. We met Axel and Enthir again for supper, but neither of us had much of an appetite. I couldn’t tell you what they talked about during the meal if you put a gun to my head. I just kept seeing that faceless corpse. That cannot be allowed to happen to anyone else. Period. 

It wasn’t long before I excused myself to go to bed early. Onmund cornered me just inside my room and asked what I was going to do. Playing dumb didn’t work. 

“That was not your cousin.” He said flatly. “And you’re so angry you can barely breath. If you tell me what’s really happening maybe I can help.” 

He wasn’t wrong. I was seething with rage and knew that I needed to calm down before moving forward with any kind of plan. I told him to get Axel and Enthir and bring them to my room. If he had any puritanical qualms about that he kept it to himself and was soon back with the doors shut on the group. Something about being in an enclosed space makes me feel better. Like reverse claustrophobia. I told them all about the victim and what we saw. My suspicions about Calixto I framed as a simple hunch. The man was a collector, he’d been abroad for decades before settling in Windhelm, learning who knows what on his travels, and he’d obviously been in love with his dead sister. 

That got their attention. While the odd instance of incest is quietly tolerated in Skyrim, it isn’t encouraged either from what I’ve heard. Enthir was the first to point out that a hunch is not evidence and that I should leave the matter to the town guards. Axel disagreed. 

“I’ve lived long enough to know that they won’t really bother to investigate until someone noteworthy is killed. Someone with money.” His tone was surprisingly bitter. Now isn’t the time to delve into my friend’s past, but I will revisit the topic if I can later. 

“You’ve spent more time in this city than any of us,” Enthir said to Axel, “do you think Calixto is capable of murder?” 

The old man’s face scrunched. “Possibly. There's no knowing a man's nature by looking at him. I did overhear him talking to Elda yesterday about a ring she found, one that’s gone missing. He said the description sounded like the Death ring of Something-or-other. Calixto is always looking for new displays, so I didn’t think anything of it. Sounds like a necromancer’s bauble, though.” 

We all agreed that it was suspicious that he would know so much about something like that, and that the ring was suddenly missing from Elda’s strong box. But, thievery and an interest in necromancy isn’t evidence of murder. Even if he’s caught with pilfered goods, he’ll just pay his fine and be back on the street in no time. 

After a long discussion Enthir reluctantly agreed to lend me some proper lockpicks (he still thinks the guards should handle it, but he has cousins in this city he doesn’t want murdered so he’s going to help in the most passive way possible). When Calixto comes to the Inn for breakfast like he always does, Axel will do his level best to keep him there as long as possible while I break into his shop. Onmund will be my look out. This will be a lot like my little operation to break into Alva’s house in Morthal, except I’m even more nervous for some reason. At least with a vampire you know where you stand. I have no way of knowing how Calixto will react to a trespasser. He’s a sick fuck, but he’s clearly been planning for a long time. He’s smart and he’s patient. And if I screw this up I might end up his next target. 


	19. Blood on the Ice

Winterhold  
Sundas, 23nd of Last Seed 4E201

I woke up before sunrise on Loredas and couldn’t get back to sleep. Eventually I gave up after journaling and practiced locking and unlocking the door to my room. At least the tools Enthir lent me are sturdy and don’t seem inclined to snap at the slightest resistance. My nerves can do without that. 

I didn’t want to be caught staring at the inn doors like a creeper waiting for Calixto to show his face, so I sat at the counter trying to wake up over a cup of what Elda calls “virgin grog.” It’s sweet, bitter and tastes like prunes and boiled fennel are having a civil war in your mouth. Calixto must have entered through one of the side entrances, because one minute I was sipping my breakfast beverage the next he was right beside me, asking Elda over the counter if there were any messages. That woke me up. It took every ounce of willpower not to bolt for the door then and there. I clenched Sarah’s keychain inside my dress pocket, trying to push all the tension in my body into it. Had anyone tried to talk to me at that point the whole day would have been lost. I was just a mass of anger and terror. I didn’t even notice that Calixto had gone upstairs for his customary meal until Elda asked me if I wanted a refill. That was a big no. 

Onmund was already waiting by the side door as we had agreed, as nervous as I’ve ever seen him. We wasted no time getting to the House of Curiosities. It was early enough that there was virtually no traffic on the street at all, just the occasional lone guard on patrol. Still I had to work quickly and get inside before we were spotted. It was a little more difficult than my practice lock, but the tumblers eventually clicked into place and I slunk inside. The first thing I noticed was the smell, overwhelmingly strong cedar and lavender from sachets in bowls peppered around the room. 

I immediately went for the trunk on the second floor. And of course, because my luck had to run out sometime, that lock was heavy duty. It didn’t take long to realize that it could be hours before I managed to crack into the damn thing, and I only had maybe twenty minutes before Calixto finished his breakfast. I thought about aborting, until I noticed a smell filtering right through the potpourri. He was trying to cover up the unmistakable stench of old blood. A little alcove on the other side of the second floor was mostly obscured in shadows, but I managed to feel my way over to a plank of wood connecting it to the platform behind the chest. The smell got stronger. I prodded the sacks and storage barrels until my elbow smacked against the wall with a hollow thunk. A small piece of the wall had been carefully cut away, then put back with a scrap of wood acting like a toggle. It was just big enough to crawl through and I did just that, trying very hard not to think of what might be on the other side. 

The space was completely dark, there were no windows, no candles. I had to bring a small flame up and hold it just above my palm. That was enough. A wooden folding table, the sort of thing you might take camping, sat in the center of the tiny room covered in a heavily stained sheet uncomfortably similar to the one Helgird used in the Hall of the Dead. I didn’t have to lift the sheet to know what was beneath it. Dark splatters on the table legs and floor showed some signs that Calixto tried to clean up the mess, but either gave up or was interrupted. The hum of magic clung to the table, but it was wrong. My time at the college taught me that strong magic is noisy, but when an instructor cast it was like hearing a song condensed into a burst of power. This was something else, a hanging chord played out of tune, and it set my teeth on edge.

I just stood there, shaking with fury, when I heard voices outside the front door. If I’ve ever moved faster in my life I do not recall. Adrenalin pulled me into action, crawling out of the hole in the wall and replacing the panel just in time to see Calixto walk into the room below, talking with an overly loud and exuberant Onmund. I froze, crouching on the edge of the plank that led to freedom listening to my friend babbling on about the history of the mage’s college. Crossing the room Calixto looked up and right at me. I held my breath and waited for him to do something. Tell me to get out, yell for a guard, just something. 

Seconds ticked on and his eyes slid past me to Onmund.

“That is fascinating, my young friend, but if you will forgive me I really must see about opening the shop.” Calixto said. 

I took a tentative step onto the plank and could not see my own leg. Well, now I know that for Invisibility to work all I need is to be scared shitless. I followed Onmund as silently as I could out the door, into the street, and straight into a sprint downhill to the Grey Quarter. We met, as planned, at the New Gnisis Cornerclub. Onmund was furious. 

“What happened?! I had to stall him when he came back early, and I didn’t know where you were and…are you crying?” 

They were stress tears, okay? I filled Onmund in on what I found, whispering low at a corner table, just in case. Elves have excellent hearing, after all. 

“So, you didn’t get any actual evidence?” Onmund asked, sounding deflated and so done with the whole business. 

“I found a secret room full of bloody furniture.” I hissed. “All we have to do is bring this to the steward and get some guards to check out that room. Then that bastard can spend the rest of his life in a cell.”

Onmund looked like he wanted to object, but I was already heading for the door. Off to the Palace of Kings, which is a hell of a lot harder to get into than I expected. There was a line, for one thing, of people with grievances waiting to speak with the steward. I got in the back of it, crossed my arms, and waited. And waited. So much waiting. In the subsequent hours I got to hear all about how the man standing in front of me had been wronged by a neighbor who kicked and killed one of his chickens. The lady behind me was convinced that a coven of witches had taken over the bunk house at the mill. Riveting stuff. Once I finally got up to the doors, I had to convince the equivalent of Jorlief’s PA that I deserved to actually speak with the steward. Chicken man was dismissed. The bored looking woman eyed me up and down with a clipboard ready to do the same to me before I blurted out a truncated version of what I planned to say to Jorlief. After an agonizing pause, she waved me through. Onmund remained outside. I give him a hard time, but he really is a good guy, he could have just left me there by myself, but he didn’t. 

It’s telling that the first thing Jorlief asked once I had said my piece was where I am from. Wow. Just wow, I tell you that there’s a murderer living in your city and gift wrap you his location and you’re more worried about my accent? Instant dislike. After another brief run down of the situation and emphasizing that Calixto is an Imperial, because apparently that’s all Jorlief cares about, I finally convinced him to send guards to check the house. I had to wait so that I could give my testimony. 

More. Fucking. Waiting. At least by then the PA took pity on me when she saw me fidgeting and had a maid show me to a washroom upstairs. And what a washroom! Maybe it was the emotional roller coaster I’ve been on, or the fact that I haven’t seen a real bathtub in going on seven months, but I damn near broke down in tears at the sight. There was a tub, a sink with a drain, and a toilet. Granted it’s just a box with a hole over the chamber pot inside, but it’s nicer than the open sewer latrines we commoners get to use. There was also a silvered glass mirror on the wall. I am confirmed for looking like crap. Maybe it was the lighting. All the windows in the Palace are barred and stretched over with sheepskin to keep the cold out, so it’s not exactly cheery. 

I shamelessly lingered in that room. If there had been taps to fill the copper tub, I totally would have taken a bath. (The poor servants! I pity the unlucky peon who has to fill that tub. I hope they have a pully system or something. My back hurt just thinking about it.) After emptying my bladder, I used the basin and had a good thorough scrub with three different kinds of soap. Didn’t matter if the water was cold, I needed it. Feeling fortified I was on my way back down to the main hall when I bumped into Ulfric fucking Stormcloak. He hardly acknowledged me, just grunted something about watching where I was going and continued on his way. He looked like a dragon had broiled him, swallowed him whole, and shat him out. The fact that he’s been to hell and back gave me an intense schadenfreude moment. I’m very glad he didn’t recognize me. 

The warm fuzzies drained out of me once the guard brought in Calixto, looking eerily calm and cooperative. Onmund followed quietly behind. 

“No evidence of foul play was discovered upon inspecting the domicile of one Calixto Corrium.” The guard reported to Jorlief. 

My jaw dropped. Even city guards couldn’t be so incompetent that a killing room covered in blood could be explained away. Calixto had to have known something was up, somehow, and spent the hours it took me to get an audience cleaning that room from top to bottom. The smug son of a bitch had the gall to look put out by the inconvenience of it all.

“A chest on the second level of the home was opened by the owner and inspected by myself and Captain Bjarn. No weapons or implements of torture were found. Nor any illegal or reportedly stolen items.” The guard then produced a sack that he dumped onto a small table by the steward’s chair. Neither guard must be literate because it was PA lady who had to stand at Jorlief’s shoulder, cataloging the items. 

“I understand that there has been a tragedy in this city,” Calixto said, “but this is really getting out of hand, don’t you agree? I’m sure that the victim’s family, wherever they are, would not want an innocent man condemned for their daughter’s untimely demise.” 

I wanted to spit. I wanted to beat the living shit out of his filthy lying face, and in hindsight I think that’s exactly what he wanted. Discrediting my word by making me look crazy and violent would work to his advantage. What saved me was the familiar sound of jangling. As Jorlief prodded through the objects on his table I saw something that didn’t belong. Sitting there among junk drawer odds and ends were the mud-splattered keys to a Toyota on a silver ring, with the nub of a broken clasp still dangling from it. 

I picked up the key ring and looked Calixto in the eye. “May I ask where this came from?” 

Fucker didn’t even blink. “I traded a dwemer plate for it in Cyrodiil. Unusual piece. I planned to take it to a lock smith for study, but never found the time.”

“Really?” I asked, pulling Sarah’s keychain out of my pocket and holding the broken ends together to show Jorlief how they fit. “Because Helgird can confirm that this was found on the victim.” 

Calixto’s façade cracked just a little. He called me a “vicious slattern” and warned that there would be “dire repercussions” for sullying his good name.

“Enough!” Ulfric barked. I hadn’t noticed him enter the room, but I could feel the power in his voice move the air around us. The jarl sat on his throne and sent for Helgird to testify. It didn’t take long for her to arrive, death certificate in hand as well as a detailed list of items found with the body. The guards then searched Calixto (I couldn’t believe they hadn’t done that before!) and found not only the necromancer’s skull amulet under his shirt, but the alabaster ring Elda reported missing in one of his pockets.

Wuunfurth the court mage grumpily identified the amulet as if it was the most common thing in the world. (I understand that life is rough here, but why the hell isn’t murder a bigger deal to these people?!) He and Helgird, along with two more guards, were sent back to the House of Curiosities to do a more thorough inspection. I sent Onmund back to the inn. I had to the wait the entire damn day, no sense in making him starve at my side. 

While the killing room had been cleaned Wuunfurth reported residual necromantic energy and Helgird found traces of blood embedded between the floorboards that the guards hadn’t noticed. The moment Helgird finished her statement Calixto lunged at her. I managed to push her out of the way, but that only earned me a pair of surprisingly strong hands around my throat. He would have crushed my windpipe if the guards hadn’t pried him off. That was, finally, the last straw for the court. In addition to charges of theft and perjury Ulfric sentenced Calixto to death for the killing and dismemberment of “the vagrant.” Harsher than I was thinking. Then again, they’re in the middle of a civil war, the Stormcloaks probably don’t have the resources to keep a prisoner indefinitely. 

Then Jorlief turned on me. “While we thank you for bringing this man’s crimes to our attention you have confessed to willfully trespassing. You will pay a fine of five septims or spend the night in a dungeon cell.” 

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Maybe it was stupid, but I actually looked around the room, trying to gauge whether I was being pranked. Ulfric just sat on his throne with an unreadable expression. Nope, not a joke. I wasn’t about to ask Helgird for a loan, so I straightened my spine and took the jail time. I may be destitute but I’m going to keep the sliver of dignity I have left, even if my voice does sound like a chain smoker gargling lighter fluid right now. 

The two guards dragged Calixto to the dungeons. He’d given up the mild-mannered shop keeper routine completely and screamed about how he can’t be stopped and you’re only delaying the inevitable, all the classic villain cliches. Jorlief’s assistant, the lady with the clipboard, escorted me down the same hallways deeper and deeper under the palace. She instructed the guards to give me a decent supper. Calixto was to have nothing. Maybe Ulfric recognized me after all, or maybe my sentencing was just posturing to make sure he didn’t appear too weak or lenient. I really don’t know. 

They put some fresh straw on the floor with a goat skin over it, so I didn’t have to sleep in the dirt. As I hunkered down, trying to stay warm, I could hear the guards grow more impatient with Calixto’s ranting. Eventually one of them took a wooden club to him. I wish I could have found some catharsis in the grunts of pain he made, or the heavy smack of wood on muscle but I didn’t. I just wanted it to stop. 

After a while the guards got bored and wandered away to their table to play cards. I could still hear Calixto breathing heavily from the cell next to mine, too deliberate and labored to be unconscious. I figured I may never get the opportunity again, so I asked him what he did with the body parts. He didn’t answer, so I asked again, “What did you do with Sarah’s face? Her hands? They must be somewhere.” 

He fucking laughed. “Was that her name? Insignificant to the Whole. You have interfered with genius far beyond your understanding, child, but no matter. I will be free to continue my work soon enough.”

I’m not sure if all that was bravado, insanity or a little bit of both. Frankly at that point my head was pounding, my throat hurt like hell, and I just wanted the whole miserable day to be done, so I curled up into a ball and tried to sleep. 

They let me out of jail this morning. I found Axel outside the Palace waiting with a letter in hand. He threw a comforting arm around my shoulders and asked me if it was my first time. We both chuckled at the double entendre as we walked back to the Candlehearth. The letter was a sort of voucher from Jorlief, giving Axel the rights to a replacement horse and wagon from the jarl’s military reserves. With things being the way they are that means an old nag and an even older wagon, but Axel needs to get back to work, so he’ll take what he can get. This also means that we will be leaving for Whiterun the moment Ulundil gets back from Winterhold. I could not be more ready to get out of this wretched city.


	20. Rules of the Road

Turdas, 27th of Last Seed 4E201

Goodbyes in Winterhold this morning were brief. Enthir is waiting for a business contact, so he will be staying until Axel makes his rounds again, then return to the college. Onmund decided to visit his family near Kynesgrove. None of us were keen on staying for Calixto's execution and I wasn’t crazy about all the attention from random strangers for catching the killer either. I also found out that executions are more or less mandatory events in Windhelm. Elda handed me a note delivered by page extending an invitation to attend, like it’s a fucking quinceanera. There's a mental image. Calixto in a fluffy dress getting his tiara'd head lopped off. I'll pass. I didn't even bother to send a reply. I doubt anyone will care.

Ulindil finally got back from Winterhold and returned my mail. Two letters, one from Falion and one from Viarmo. The letter from Viarmo was just the long-awaited notice that the Burning of King Olaf festival has been cancelled. It wasn’t panicky or demanding, so it must be old.

Falion has never written me himself before, which probably means that he didn’t want to bother trying to dictate to Idgrod, or he felt more comfortable keeping the correspondence to himself. As follows:

_College of Winterhold_   
_Esme,_

_I have examined the transcribed pages you sent (your handwriting is truly terrible, by the way) and cross-referenced some other texts I’ve been able to get my hands on. I’ll give you the good news first. Based on the author’s cryptic, but not incomprehensible, notes in the Treatise I’m confident that I can reactivate the mirror. The bad news is that I’m equally confident that it will only take you back to the waypoint._

_If you have not already done so I strongly suggest that you find and read The Doors of Oblivion. The fate of the author’s mentor is not one I would wish on anyone. Once you have read the book return to Morthal. We will speak in greater detail about the dangers going forward._

_-Falion_

He assigned me homework. Yay. I assume the “waypoint” is the grove I found myself in after I fell out of the first portal. Makes sense, my thought was to get that far and see what happens. I’m not thrilled about going back into the mind of a dead homicidal monarch, but if that’s where Sheogorath is still “vacationing” then that’s where I need to go. I did look for that elf with the hip bone from the game, but he was never in Solitude. Maybe he will be there when I get back, that would save time, but I can’t count on it. Falion is my backup.

I read the letters on the road to pass the time. Axel’s new rig has him grumbling, but he’ll just have to make do until he can afford an upgrade. He didn’t even get a horse. I have affectionately dubbed his new mule Ferris for my own amusement.

We’re taking the journey slow because the weather is gorgeous, and the wagon could very well fall apart at any moment. There are no other passengers, just the two of us plus cargo. Even so Ferris will periodically stop in the middle of the road for no discernible reason and can’t be convinced to move again unless there's a carrot involved.

I need to do something nice for Axel. Not only is he letting me ride to Whiterun for free, but he’s feeding me from his own rations. He won’t take the ring Faralda gave me, I already tried that. Stubborn ass. He and Ferris deserve each other.

At least the mud is mostly dried out now, it makes the journey a lot more enjoyable. I’ve taken to walking along the wagon picking plants for alchemy use later. Once we arrive in Whiterun I just need to get to an alembic, then I can make some money and it’s westward ho!

******

I took out a wolf this evening! The pack was sniffing around camp and spooked Ferris. While Axel was busy keeping the mule from bolting, I hurled a fireball that scared all but one away. It lunged, I managed to sweep to one side and finished it off with my ax. I guess it’s a thing now that I go invisible when I’m scared. That’s useful. I would rather be able to do it at will, but if it keeps me from getting torn apart by an apex predator I’m not going to complain. Axel was a little put out because there’s no snow to pack the meat in, and we don’t have time to smoke it. Instead he skinned the carcass, then carried it off and buried it away from the road so it won’t attract more scavengers. Rules of the road, he said.

Fredas, 28th of Last Seed 4E201

Axel has never seen me fight or kill before. Once Ferris was settled and we had camp packed up this morning he had some things to say about my lack of technique. To paraphrase: “Swinging as hard as you can is not a strategy.”

Okay, so he’s right. I need training. Since we both use one-handed axes, he showed me some moves and a better grip. It’s a good thing too, because as the sun was going down and we were debating whether to camp again or keep going an arrow zipped through the air and embedded itself in the side of the wagon. I recognized the location by the stone bridge stretching between two towers over the river. Three bandits appeared in front of it and I’m sure they would have demanded a toll, or something equally expected, but Axel was having none of it.

For a guy who has to be pushing seventy that man can move. Before he’d even left the wagon he brained the biggest of them by throwing an iron skillet, then tossed a dagger into the chest of the second. The third, a very dirty woman with black teeth, tried to rush him. While he dealt with her, I decided to take the initiative against the tower archer before he got a lucky shot. Invisible and shaking with adrenaline I ran into the tower and climbed the stairs all the way up to the top. The archer was taking aim when he came into view so I did the only thing I could think of, I pushed his ass off the edge. I spotted two more crossing the bridge below me and hurled fire at them as hard as I could, then tossed my ax, which only managed to wing one of them. Axel appeared on the landing, kicked the bandit with the heaviest armor off and into the river, and beheaded the wounded one. He went across to check the second tower and slaughtered the last archer, who was cowering behind a rock.

My legs went wobbly and it took a while for me to manage the stairs back down. The archer’s body lay face-down to one side with his arms flung at odd angles. I killed him. I killed a person today. Jesus H. Christ, I know if I hadn’t he would have killed Axel, and then me, but this isn’t okay. I don’t know how long I stood over his body, the amount of time it took Axel to loot the towers I suspect. He seemed to understand. He led me over to a stump by the tower door, then he went to collect the wagon. Ferris had taken off, but the lazy animal hadn’t even gone a quarter mile, so it didn’t take long.

The corpse of the female bandit was missing an arm and laying in the middle of the road in a dark pool of blood, piss, and shit. Her mouth hung open, each rotten tooth in her head on display. The big guy was still twitching, but judging by the amount of skull fragments and brain matter on our cooking skillet that was just nerve endings firing off. The one with a dagger in his chest was still alive, I discovered as I sat there, watching him slowly try to crawl toward me. I don’t think he saw me; he was just trying to get away, get to shelter. It was like watching a blind kitten feel its way across a blanket. Only the blanket was gore-splattered turf and the kitten was a scrawny, sunburned teenager with blood dribbling out of his mouth.

That’s when I remembered the healing scroll Colette gave me. I ran to meet the wagon, jumped into the back, yanked the scroll out of my bag and ran back to the tower. By the time I got there the kid had stopped moving. I nudged him with my boot. When he didn’t react, I rolled him over to check his pulse.

“Don’t waste it.” Axel called as he slowly walked Ferris to a tree and tied the reigns off. He knew the kid was dead before I did.

I don’t know if saving him would have helped my conscience. I keep telling myself that it wasn't my fault. I didn't want to kill anyone. It feels important to document everything I can, not so much for the Whiterun guard, but for me. Future me.

It took a few hours to clean up the mess. Axel looted the bodies for anything valuable and stowed it all away in a sack in the back of the wagon. They weren’t well equipped at all, probably why they set up shop at the towers, hoping for easy marks. We found the one Axel knocked off the bridge caught on some rocks further downstream. His armor was so heavy it likely drowned him. It took us both plus a length of rope to yank him up onto the bank.

I thought that we would bury them like the wolf, but Axel wants to see if any of them have bounties in Whiterun, so we had to rearrange the cargo and pile the bodies in the wagon. By the time we were done it was dark and we were both exhausted, so we made camp at the towers. I couldn’t eat and the fact that Axel could was a little unnerving. I took the opportunity while he was munching on hard tack and cheese, to ask where he learned to fight.

“And don’t say ‘on the road.’” I threw in for good measure. “You didn’t learn to fight like that on the road.”

He sat there and chewed for what seemed like an excessively long time before admitting, rather begrudgingly, that he had been a soldier under Hoag Stormcloak until after the Great War. I’m not used to stories from Axel that don’t involve naked bandits and quips about how argonians use their tails. I think it was weird for him too.

He didn’t go into great detail, but I got the bullet points. Joined the army, learned how to fight, saw some horrific battles, developed PTSD, got discharged from ranks, did some unsavory shit to makes ends meet, eventually settled on being a driver because it was the only legal job he could get. He also mentioned that the only reason he got the job was because his sister Fralia worked it out. I know that name. I can’t remember who she is, but I know it.

The doors are all barred and we’re camping out on the second floor, where it's cleaner. I can’t sleep. This is a problem with me lately, I haven’t been able to get more than a few hours a night. Maybe the sound of the river will help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed my self-imposed deadline, dagnabit! Please to forgive, I had IRL things and it's only going to get worse the next couple months. I would have gone into greater detail concerning Axel's backstory, but in journal format it felt forced. Realistically Esme wouldn't have been able to remember his whole life story word for word, especially while dealing with her own trauma from, you know, her first murder. Or actually I think under these circumstances it would be considered manslaughter. Either way, the moral dilemmas tag and Mature rating are there for good reason. Thanks for reading!


	21. Friends in Low Places

Whiterun  
Loredas, 29th of Last Seed 4E201

Fortune, thou art a fickle bitch. I want to start this entry by reminding myself that freaking out over everything I have no control over just makes me anxious and angry. What’s making me feel this way, you may ask? Outside of riding into Whiterun with six dead people, the Dragonborn is an irresponsible dickhole! 

Let me back up. I managed to get what felt like five minutes of sleep, so I was cranky from the get-go. Axel didn’t appreciate my sour mood, so after our meager cheese and tomato on hard tack breakfast he proceeded to push me into the river while I was washing. The water is lower than it would be in spring with snow melt, but it’s still fast and cold. I scrambled onto the rocks weighed down by soggy wool layers, swaying and cursing like a sailor. Meanwhile he’s standing by the wagon pissing himself with laughter. 

I know Axel was trying to get me to lighten up, but I wish he had just gone straight to telling dirty jokes. Had to change back into my novice robes, but I only have one pair of boots, so I got to squelch all the way to Whiterun. I’m continually surprised when Axel complains about the summer heat. Honestly it feels more like early May to me, so even in dry clothes I had to walk rather than ride just to keep from shivering. I wanted to maintain a healthy distance from our disgusting cargo anyway. 

The closer to Whiterun we got the more people we saw. Mostly farmers moving their produce and the occasional peddler. While the robes are comfortable, it’s hard not to notice the increase in distrustful glares when I’m in them, from Nords anyway. 

We passed a small caravan a few miles outside the city. Khajiit look so fluffy and enticing in person. The obvious pride in personal grooming cat people have makes your average human look like mud-wallowing rubes in comparison. Not a hair out of place, every piercing and piece of armor polished to a high gloss. All of them wrinkled their adorable noses as we passed, smelling the slowly swelling corpses in the back of the wagon, no doubt. 

By the time we got to Whiterun the stink was starting to become a real problem. Thankfully two of the bandits did have modest bounties on their heads, so the effort wasn’t completely wasted. God knows Axel could use the coin. He invited me to stay with his relatives, which is how I found out that his sister married into the Gray-Manes (that’s where I know the name Fralia, she’s Eorlund’s wife!) and that Axel doesn’t have a house of his own. That’s why he’s nice to me, I think, he’s been where I am now. The whole hijacked carriage thing was nothing new, he’s had to start from square one more than once. 

Eorlund’s house is more like an estate. He said he built it over the ruins of an older family home that fell into disrepair and was simply too small for them all. At one time Fralia and Axels’ parents and Eorlund’s mother lived with them as well, so there are plenty of extra rooms. I just hope they changed out the mattress after granny Gray-Mane drifted off to Sovngarde. It is the nicest room I’ve stayed in since arriving in Skyrim. No magic-activated doors or sharing with a dozen strangers. Everything is clean and homey with bright textiles and ancient weapons on every wall. Fralia is fastidious, but welcoming. I get the impression that her husband and son are suspicious of me, but Nords are like that. They both visibly relaxed when Axel assured them I'm not a mage. They’re also not as well off as they once were. There are cabinets and shelves in the main room that look like they once contained heirlooms or collectibles but are bare now. The family survives on Eorlund’s reputation. 

Their son, Avulstein, never leaves the house and the other one, Thor-something? I haven’t seen at all, so he may have already been captured by the Thalmor. They don’t know me well enough to discuss it, and I am not going to bring it up. That or my opinion of Ulfric Stormcloak. 

After settling in I immediately sent letters to Idgrod, Falion, and Viarmo all basically assuring them that I am not in fact dead and that I am trying to get back to Morthal as soon as possible. There is a complication, though, and it presented itself in the form of one Antonius Aretino. Yes, his last name is Aretino, a name I remember very well. There’s a little boy in Windhelm who would be very interested to know that he’s not an orphan. I’m putting a pin in that for now. 

He was sitting in the Bannered Mare, where Axel spotted him and sat at his table to get the story out of Helgen while I dropped my letters off at the counter. He’s a wiry, middle-aged Imperial with black hair greying at the temples and a hooked nose that’s been broken more than once. Kind of reminds me of an older, weather-beaten Oscar Isaac. It was barely midday and he was already pretty well sloshed. And I could tell that he had already told the Helgen story ad nauseum, but he humored Axel, after he bought him a drink. It was more or less as scripted, which was weird to hear. That also cinched it for me, he’s got to be the Dragonborn, he just doesn’t know it because he hasn’t gone to Bleakfalls yet. Farengar asked him to retrieve the tablet already, but he hasn’t decided if he wants to take the job. And here we come to my realization that this guy is an asshat, child abandonment not withstanding. Antonius is a self-described sellsword, so I get that he’s only thinking about whether the coin is worth the effort. But when I suggested that getting an artifact that could help stop dragon attacks was more important than the cash reward, he looked at me like I had sprouted horns. Philanthropy is clearly not his jam. I internally panicked, if this guy just decides to walk away what happens? If there’s no DB to even try to defeat Alduin will the universe correct itself or will we all just die? I think we all die.

I can be persuasive when I want to be, but man was it a hard sell. When getting him to talk about Riverwood he had fortunately heard about the golden claw that had been stolen, so I went with the two birds one stone argument. One trip up a mountain, two rewards for your trouble. And I promised that I would get him back up. Axel scrunched hard at that but said nothing. Eventually I got Antonius to agree to take the job, if I make good. He then staggered off to do whatever he needed to do before going up to Dragons Reach and left me to formulate. Axel rightly wanted to know what in the good fuck was happening. There was no other explanation I could give for why it’s so crucial that this drunk I barely know go find a tablet in a tomb, so I had to tell the truth, mostly. I waited til we were back at the Gray-Manes, then couched the story in a mystical vision of the future. Idgrod will have to forgive the fib. 

Axel doesn’t believe that Antonius is Dragonborn. His exact words were “If that man was chosen by the Divines, I’m a pink-bellied virgin.” However, when I insisted that I need to make sure that this thing is done even if I have to drag Antonius up that mountain by the ear, he promptly walked downstairs and told his nephew to get ready to go questing. Avulstein looked equally confused and relieved. I think he’s going nuts being stuck inside. Fralia was nervous about letting him go, but it's relatively low risk. There aren't likely to be any Imperial patrols in Riverwood and there should be none near the Barrow. She got busy gathering supplies and Eorlund confirmed that Benor did not make it into the Companions, so he was out as back up. The only other person I know in Whiterun who fit the bill was Mette. I hated to ask her to take time off from her duties, but when I showed up at the barracks she was eager to help. Whiterun is boring, that’s why Juni transferred to Windhelm, apparently. 

I don’t want to go, and Axel doesn’t want me to go, and I’m sure Antonius doesn’t really want me to go, but I’m gonna. I’m tired of traveling and I don’t want to fight draugr. But I have to be sure that the quest-line starts the way it’s supposed to. Once Antonius gets close to the word wall, then absorbs his first dragon soul later, my hope is that things will fall into place and he’ll do what’s needed on instinct. Then I can take the training wheels off and go do my own thing. Call me a control freak. I even followed Antonius and made sure he really did speak with Farengar. He did, I could still smell his boozy vapor trail. Farengar was polite, but dismissive when he saw me, so I used his alchemy station, then left. We head south in two days. 

Inventory: Skyforge steel axe (thanks Eorlund), 6 healing potions, 3 stamina, 4 soup “packets” (okay this is impressive, it’s like soup dumplings, they make the soup base then coagulate it with collagen and wrap the blobs in sheep bladders to be heated up later), plus bread and cheese. 1 water skin per person. Resupply in Riverwood.


	22. Bleakfalls Barrow Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Everyone may not be good, but there’s always something good in everyone. Never judge anyone shortly because every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.” -Oscar Wilde

Tirdas, 1st of Hearthfire 4E201

We decided to head to Bleakfalls directly. Avulstein knew a shortcut from Whiterun that shaved a couple hours off the trip. I almost left this journal at the Gray-Mane’s to cut down on weight but being without it feels wrong. It’s not like anyone can read it, but I’m already paranoid about what’s happening with the stuff I left in Solitude, I don’t want to add to that. So, I’ve got an extra five pounds of paper in the bottom of my pack. Sorry, spine, you’re taking one for the team.

It’s weird to see Mette out of uniform. I hope she didn’t get into trouble asking for time away to help me with this. She insists that she didn’t and that her boys are old enough to be on their own. The youngest is fifteen. She did mention that she got married very early, but damn. Except for a couple crows feet she doesn’t look a day over thirty.

We’re traveling by foot to be less conspicuous. Antonius made the suggestion. He seems to have an aversion to horses, he cringed as we went passed the Whiterun stables and stayed well away from Ferris while I was saying my goodbyes to Axel. First I’ve seen anyone have that reaction.

I wish Axel could come with, but he must continue his endless trek back to Windhelm. He tried to convince me one last time to just head back to Morthal. I could have, Avulstein and Mette would probably keep Antonius on task, but if something goes wrong they don’t really understand the consequences. As much as I’d like to, I can’t take the easy way out and hope everything goes the way it should. At least the others bought my “this is part of a vision” explanation. I’ll just be an advisor and emergency fireball thrower.

This has to be my purpose here, right? Why else but to use what I know to keep this whole prophecy thing on the rails? I’ll ask any Daedra who will talk to me, any time. Hell, I even tried talking to the one in the Dragons Reach basement just to see what would happen. A whole lot of nothing, that’s what.

It took the better part of the day to get to the Barrow. I forgot that there were bandits up here too. As soon as the watch tower came into view Mette pulled me aside and made me hunker down behind a rock while the rest of them snuck up the trail. She’s good with a bow and picked off two before they knew what was happening. Antonius and Avulstein cleared the rest out in less than five minutes. I expected the Nord to barrel in like a berserker and the Imperial to take a sneakier approach, but they proved me wrong. While Mette backed them up from a distance, both men quietly infiltrated the keep with daggers drawn. When I was finally allowed to come out of hiding, while Antonius was busy ransacking the place, I noticed that all the bodies had a stab wound under the ribs and their throats slit. Avulstein mumbled some writ about bandits not deserving an honorable death while he meticulously cleaned their blood from his father’s blades. Mette kept watching me. Probably trying to judge how I was handling it. If she saw through my poker face she didn’t say anything.

There were a few more in the main chamber once we finally got up here, also not much of a challenge. We took over the preexisting campsite but tossed the bandit’s bedrolls out. The most useful I’ve been so far was hauling skeever corpses into the snow and cooking dinner. With a thorough hand washing in between.

Antonius picked at his rations and opted out of conversation for the most part. He packed his own supply of mead, I noticed. The rest of us mostly talked about what might be inside the tomb. Of the four of us Antonius and Mette have dealt with draugr before. When she was still doing mercenary work, Mette said she was hired to clear out an infestation of undead in a mine that hit part of a tomb network. This apparently happens a lot. Apart from magic-wielders, Deathlords, and Dragon Priests (which she’s only heard about) the major worry is infection. Ancient weapons are rusty and dirty, plus she said the buggers claw and bite if they’re disarmed. All Antonius had to add was “go for the joints.” Avulstein hung on every word. He’s like a kid before Christmas morning who just can’t wait to rip into his presents. His hostile, armed zombie presents. We’re turning in early. Hopefully tomorrow will go well. 

Bleakfalls Barrow

Middas, 2nd of Hearthfire 4E201

It didn’t take long to get to the puzzle room and dispatch the one bandit stuck there. I won’t make fun of him for not being able to figure it out, it was nowhere near as simplistic as the game. The statuary isn’t prominently displayed, for one thing. When we finally did find the symbols on the walls, hidden in chevrons and corners where they’re hardest to see, the images were so worn two could barely be made out and one was missing completely. Fortunately, I remembered that it’s snake, snake, fish from my many playthroughs. The rotating pedestals were so old and crusty that even Avulstein with his giant tree trunk arms could barely get them to budge. Antonius had a solution for that. He pissed on the bases. I mean a long, satisfied “I’ve always wanted to do this” piss too. Gross, but it worked.

Skeevers after that. I squealed like the mom in a Tom and Jerry cartoon when they came up the spiral staircase and fried them to crispy critters. Avulstein and Mette tried not to laugh, at least. Antonius had to hold his knees as he gasped for air. Jerk. Then we came to the spider chamber. It was the first giant spider I’ve seen and…yeah, they’re nasty. The whole nest smelled like rotting meat with something acrid under it, like burning rubber. We fanned out, Mette and me on either side shooting arrows and fireballs respectively while Avulstein broke its mandibles to gooey bits with his war hammer and Antonius slashed at the slightly softer parts with his daggers. Took a while to bring it down. All the while the dark elf caught in its web kept shouting for help. I fully intended to try to save the jackass from himself, but Mette got to him first and cut him down without question. The moment the webbing loosened he hit the floor and took off down the passage. Predictable results. By the time we caught up to him he was already dead. Antonius took no time at all rifling through his pockets, pulling the claw from the elf’s pack with an expression of utter glee. The rest of us were fine with letting him do all the looting. Touching dead people doesn’t seem to faze him at all. That’s good, once he realizes that he’s the Dragonborn he’ll be doing this sort of thing a lot more often.

Draugr must be held together by magic and spite. Mette wasn’t kidding about the biting, either. I stayed back and sent bursts of fire at the ones rising out of their niches. I’m getting quite good at hitting from a distance. The others struck down the already awake and very pissed off undead further into the chamber. I thought I’d gotten them all until Antonius flung one of his many daggers into the face of the corpse just behind me. It didn’t like that. I swung my axe and managed to slice off its dry-rotted wrist, and the sword it carried with it, but that just made the thing lunge forward and try to sink its teeth into my shoulder. Antonius shoved me aside and lopped off its head. It crumpled and twitched before the faint blue light in its eye sockets dimmed out. A string of my most colorful English curses spewed out of my mouth, before I caught myself and thanked Antonius for saving my ass. There were more draugr to fight, so we quickly went to catch up with Avulstein and Mette.

We went through the crypt holding an unspoken formation, Avulstein in front, then Antonius, me, and Mette at the rear. As we progressed, I started to notice that Antonius had gotten deathly quiet. He didn’t seem to take this mission very seriously from the beginning but did obviously get real pleasure out of finding treasure. That all evaporated after the first main chamber. He still methodically looted every corpse, chest, burial urn, and sarcophagus, but it was like he was on autopilot.

It took about two hours to get to the underground stream. We took a break there, because the pull chain on the iron gate was rusted in place. Antonius drank his lunch and counted septims while Avulstein kicked and cursed the gate. Mette munched on some sort of root that she pulled from the wall. It smelled like licorice, but I decided not to partake.

An unexpected side effect of fighting very dead things is the dust. Every severed limb sent a cloud of dead guy into the air for us to walk through, not to mention the soot from my many fireballs. I felt like it was clinging to every inch of my skin and I know there was some up my nose. I spent most of the break washing. It probably wasn’t a very practical thing to do, in hindsight. We weren’t done fighting and I was just chilling my skin down in an already cold, wet cavern. There was a brazier full of oily coals that didn’t take much effort to light, though. That’s when Antonius spoke to me directly for the first time since we met.

“For someone who claims not to be a mage you sure like using Flame a lot.” He said.

It wasn’t a particularly astute or snarky thing to say. What left me speechless was that he said it in perfect English.

I needed a second to recover. I haven’t heard my native language, except when I mumble to myself, in months and it brought a plume of homesickness to the surface that I had to tamp down before I trusted my own voice.

“It’s the only spell I’m good at.” I answered, also in English.

Mette and Avulstein exchanged confused glances. Antonius chuckled, bitterly.

“I thought I recognized your accent, but it’s been a long time…” he trailed off, putting his coin purse away and finally looking me in the eyes. “Mid-west?”

“Chicago. You’re…from the east coast?”

“Jersey. South Orange.” 

“It’s muddled. How long have you been here?”

“About twelve years. You?”

“Going on nine months.”

I’ll save the paper and paraphrase our conversation from here. I had many questions and he likes giving succinct answers.

Antonius (formerly Anthony) had been on vacation in Bolivia with a group of friends from engineering school. Specifically, they went to see the Salar de Uyuni. I confess I didn’t know what the Salar de Uyuni was until he explained that it’s a huge salt flat that becomes the world’s- _our_ world’s -largest mirror during flood season. The place is apparently a big deal if you’re into satellite calibration. On the last day there, Anthony decided to walk out onto the flat one more time.

One minute he was staring out at the biggest reflection on Earth, watching the sunrise with a dozen camera-wielding tourists, the next the ground under him disappeared. It didn’t collapse, he emphasized, it just wasn’t there anymore. He blacked out, then found himself in a cavern, dazed and alone.

I feel like an ass for judging him now. I’d probably be a cynical alcoholic too after being stranded for over a decade with no cultural touchstones and no way out. At least I had the benefit of having played Skyrim, several times, before being sent here. Antonius had no idea what was going on or where he was. As unhelpful as Sheogorath’s very brief intro was before he tossed me headfirst into Solitude, at least he extended that courtesy. Whatever or whoever brought Antonius didn’t even bother with that. When I asked if there was any other sort of mirror or reflective surface in the cave, he said he couldn’t remember. That’s fair, he was probably in shock at first, I know I was.

He doesn’t remember where the cave is either, which is unfortunate. If the mirror in Solitude doesn’t pan out, maybe whatever exit he came out of will, if we can find it. All he _could_ remember after finding his way out was there was snow and he was in the mountains somewhere. A hunting party found him suffering from altitude sickness and got him to, of all places, Helgen, where he was healed…and robbed. He woke a day or two later in the apothecary’s basement wearing nothing but his boxer shorts.

My next question was whether he’s seen anyone else from Earth here. Something like incredulous despair flicked across his face. He said once he pieced together that he wasn’t even on the right planet anymore (the double moons _are_ a dead giveaway) he’d given up hope of running across any others. When he heard me speak for the first time at the Bannered Mare, he thought he was going crazy.

At that point in our conversation Mette got frustrated and asked us what we were talking about. I think we both forgot she and Avulstein were still there. I started forming a side-step explanation when Antonius said, oh so casually, that we both speak an obscure southern High Rock dialect and were talking about our experiences with it. He is…very good at lying. Probably all the time he’s spent here pretending not to be an ~~alien~~. Ew, I don’t like using that word, never use it again!!

Avulstein was itching to go by then, so we all went to work prying up the iron gate, which took quite a bit of effort and a lever made of a draugr battleaxe handle. After we finally got into the natural caves we carried on as before, only this time I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about the implications of everything Antonius had told me. First Sarah, now him. There could be others. How many of them are still alive? How do we find them? If we band together our chances of surviving this world, and leaving it, increase. This is HUGE. It’s also a distraction that could kill me. Mette had to grab me from behind before I walked right into a me-sized hole in the floor. After that I forced myself to focus on the here and now.

Troll by the waterfall with the natural spiral ramps. That’s another first and maybe the grossest creature so far. Like a gorilla on meth. I hadn’t realized how late in the day it was until we had gotten to that area. The light filtering through the hole in the ceiling was coming from one of the moons. About an hour or so later we came to a massive double wooden door and decided that was as good a place to camp as any. It’s unlikely that anything will be able to sneak up on us in this chamber and we’re all beat. Warmed up soup blobs for dinner. I want to ask Antonius more questions, but he fell asleep immediately. It will have to wait. The last chamber can’t be that far now, we’ll get the tablet tomorrow, then head back to Riverwood to return the claw. I am going to put my foot down about that. No taking it to get appraised first or trying to sell it in another Hold. Local good will is more important than gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist adding a pic of the Salar de Uyuni, it's too gorgeous! Credit to TheStatWorld: https://www.thestatworld.com/2015/11/salar-de-uyuni-worlds-largest-mirror.html


	23. Bleakfalls Barrow Part II

Loredas, 5th of Hearthfire 4E201

It took every ounce of self-control not to bombard Tony (I couldn’t decide if Anthony or Antonius is more appropriate, so he’s Tony now) with questions from the moment he woke up that second morning. Priorities. There were undead to dismember and oversized creepy crawlies to deal with. We agreed to save the _big_ conversation we need to have for later. Mette and Avulstein don’t like it when they’re excluded anyway.

We finished off our rations, so there was more of an urgency to wrap things up. More draugr, more chambers and tunnels. It took about two hours or so to get to the final cavern. I’ve never seen a cave like it, the rock had a green sheen to it, but not from moss or lichen. It was like stepping into the center of an uncut emerald. Light filtered through narrow keyholes and chimneys above us, making the final walk to the tomb almost pleasant.

The closer we got the louder the word wall became. It didn’t chant, though that’s as good an interpretation as any for what it was doing. It was like jacked-up ASMR. A full-body tingle started in my ear canals and shivered to the base of my spine all the way down to my toes and back up again. Over and over. I don’t know if the others experienced the same sensation, but no one was unaffected.

I watched Tony carefully as he approached the word wall. Not that I was expecting a glowing swirl of light to float into his chest or anything, but I assumed _something_ would happen. That’s when the overlord decided to pop the lid on his sarcophagus and attack. I knew it was coming, but the sudden force of the Shout it unleashed still knocked me off my feet. The back of my head smacked against the stones. While Mette covered my position with her bow, I used the word wall to pull myself up. The pain in my head and the ringing in my ears made it difficult to focus, but I swear the wall buzzed under my hands like it was alive. I had to shake off the disorientation and practically belly-flop out of the way when the draugr’s blade came down to the place I was only a second before. That unbalanced it enough to let Tony sweep the leg, then Avulstein sent his war hammer down on its head. The corroded iron helmet crunched inward, which had to have turned whatever was left of its brain to powder, but the arms and legs still had to be chopped off before the body finally stopped moving. Romero zombie rules do not apply to these things.

Mette checked on me while Tony got to work looting. I felt dazed and sick to my stomach. No one else was hurt, though and we found the damn Dragonstone. It could have gone a lot worse. Avulstein claimed the overlord’s sword as a trophy. His father will probably overflow with Nordic pride when he sees it. I took a healing potion, which helped with the goose egg on the back of my head, but not the nausea.

There was an exit in the back of the chamber; the climb down was not fun. It was dark by the time we got to Riverwood and we were all hungry, tired, and dirty. I forced myself to eat some stew, because I knew that if I didn’t eat I’d only feel worse later. The pressure in the back of my head had been steadily building and I knew it was going to turn into a full-blown migraine.

As Tony dove into his third consecutive bottle of spiced wine I took the claw out of his pack and told him we would be going to the Riverwood Trader together in the morning. He looked annoyed that I didn’t trust him, but just waved me off and kept drinking.

I gave the tablet to Mette and bid them all the nicest good night I could muster, walking calmly to my room, all while the back of my eyeballs felt like they were constricting further into my head with every blink. Light hurt, sound hurt, that’s normal for a migraine. But I felt like I wanted to peel off my own skin, and that was new. I couldn’t get comfortable. Even after stripping down and dunking my head in the wash basin the itchy, tight feeling only got worse. Water normally helps, if only as a sensory distraction, so after a few agonizing hours of tossing and wondering if I had contracted bone break fever or something, I decided to try the river. I pulled on just my underwear and the sweat-stained shift that goes under my robes and left the inn as quietly as possible. There’s a spot behind the guard wall where I could hide somewhat. The water was cold, but not unbearable. Toes in the sand, and a sliver of moon overhead. I wish I could have enjoyed it. I like the way Riverwood smells, mostly of pine and freshly cut logs from the mill. The water at its deepest probably goes over my head, but I stopped at about knee depth when the sand at the bottom became mud and started sucking my feet down. That’s when I heard heavy footsteps behind me. My ankles were still anchored so I had to turn at the waist and caught sight of a very disheveled Tony yanking his boots off by the retaining wall. He rolled his trouser legs up and waded in next to me.

We didn’t talk for a while, just stood there feeling the cold water rush past. I was not feeling any better and wasn’t up for conversation. Too bad.

“I was going to steal the claw back from you tonight.” He said in English.

Ah, so that’s how he knew I was out of bed. “So why tell me?” I asked. Oh man it felt good to speak my own language again. He seemed to be getting a kick out of it too, though his accent has changed so much some words come out a little awkward sounding.

“Got to your room and decided not to. You know something I don’t. So, spill it.”

He’s more astute than I gave him credit for. Or he read my journal. I had to take a few deep breaths and will myself to ignore the throbbing in my head, so I could give him the cliff’s notes version. I told him about Sheogorath. I told him about Sarah, and my suspicions that we’re not the only earthlings (I need to find a better term!) here. Then I told him about the Dragonborn.

Tony was sufficiently sober by the time I finished. We sat on the stone bridge shoulder to shoulder drying off and just… _dealing_.

“Prophecy horseshit.” He finally muttered. “Lemme get this straight. The Dragonborn is like a Skywalker? Born to be a great warrior or the Chosen One or whatever. How could that possibly be me if I wasn’t _born_ on this planet? You sure you’re remembering it right?”

I rubbed my aching eyes and admitted that no, I don’t know how it’s possible, but all the signs are there. I asked him if he felt anything at the word wall at Bleakfalls. He shifted uncomfortably at that.

“Yeah, okay I felt something, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. So the wall hummed. Big deal. You haven’t been here long enough to have seen all the fucked-up shit I’ve seen.”

And I lacked both the time and the ability at that moment to get caught up. I can very well imagine what he’s been through the last decade, though and I’m not about to abandon a fellow refugee. Whether he likes it or not.

I told him that I wasn’t going to argue with him. If I’m right, then I’ll do everything I can to help. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong and we’ll deal with it later. Farengar still needed that tablet (I would love to see the expression on Delphine’s face if I were to just hand it over to her, but she’s not the one paying for services rendered) and the claw still needed to be returned. I scooted down off the wall and started heading back to the inn hoping to get a few hours of sleep.

When I woke the next morning my head still felt like a tiny goblin was kicking the backside of my retinas with spiked shoes. Joy, thought I, it’s going to be one of those multi-day torture sessions. I rolled out of bed, still slightly damp from the night before and checked my pack. The claw was gone.

I cursed all the way through dressing and burst into the main room ready to unleash hell when I saw Mette, Avulstein, and Tony sitting at a table smiling at me as if everything was fine. Everything was not fine. I stomped over, probably looking like roadkill, only to have Tony shake a hefty sack of coins in my face.

“Before you get mad, listen to that lovely sound.” He said in Tamrielian, presumably so the others wouldn’t feel left out. “You’re sick, so I took the claw back to Valerius and collected the reward myself. Here’s your cut. Did you sleep?”

I grumbled and plopped down beside Mette so I could bury my head in the smelly sleeves of my robe. She rubbed little circles into my neck and forced me to eat some porridge. She’s such a mom.

Tony ignored my less than cheery mood and recounted the shopkeeper’s enthusiastic reaction to getting the claw back and the generous amounts he paid for some of the better stuff Tony had pilfered from the Barrow. He split up the take between the four of us, which ended up being 162 septims each. He might have skimmed off the top, frankly I don’t care.

We packed up the breakfast leftovers and headed back to Whiterun. Not long after we hit the road a roaring sound echoed off the hills. Avulstein was the first to see the silhouette and motioned for us all to flatten ourselves against the rocks on the roadside. The unmistakable outline of a dragon passed overhead, circled once, then continued up into the clouds where it disappeared. Distance and size are hard to judge, but from where I was cowering, I’d swear the thing had to have been the size of a 747 from snout to tail. Tony gave me a “I’m supposed to fight that?” look. All I could do was shrug. Yes?

Following the road, the rest of the trip took about half a day. Mette had to get back to her kids, so we hugged our goodbyes before I followed Avulstein back to the Gray-Mane’s and Tony went off to the Bannered Mare. I was looking forward to a nap, but he showed up not twenty minutes later expecting me to go up to Dragons Reach with him. When I asked why he needed me there he quirked a brow like I had just said something stupid.

“You’re the one with all the prophetic knowledge, remember? Don’t you want to make sure everything goes okay? Besides…Irileth scares me. You can be my human shield.”

Yeah that was a deflecting move, but I went anyway. I really did want to see it through, I just wish that he had given me one solid hour to rest, maybe change clothes. Irileth wasn’t even there. In fact except for Balgruuf’s children, Farengar, and Delphine trying hilariously to disguise herself behind a hood, the place was empty. We handed over the Dragonstone, got paid. I waited for the dragon attack to trigger. Nothing. Farengar dismissed us, we walked through the hall, to the door…still nothing. I started to think that maybe that would be it, maybe the Universe would cut me a break. Ha. No. A roar shook the building and all hell broke loose.

Balgruuf came ripping down the stairs followed by half his council. I guess they were having a meeting. Irileth barked orders at her men but ignored Tony and me. Inward sigh. Do I take the out and leave the soldiers to kill the dragon, or do I prompt Tony to get on with the whole Dragonborn business? Of course I told him to follow the guards.

“What?! Why would I do that?”

“Because that’s what happens!” I snapped in English.

I practically dragged him through the city. We could see the dragon circling in the distance, so could everyone else, which caused no small amount of panic. The market cleared, people on the street fled screaming into their very flammable homes. The huge lizard seemed to be heading away from the city, and I knew where it would end up attacking. At least I thought I did.

I realized as we passed the stables that I was completely unarmed, but it was too late to go back for my axe. I figured Tony would be the one doing the fighting anyway. I also noticed that the dragon wasn’t heading west toward the watch tower. Of all the things to go off script. It was dangerously close to the city, about a mile south, hovering over the meadery. The workers and farmers from the nearby fields ran past us frantically trying to get to the more solid walls of Whiterun.

Guards ringed around the meadery shooting arrow after arrow at the dragon’s wings. They must have been at it for a while. Every time it swooped around it came down a little lower and rained hot splatters of blood from the wounds on its belly and legs. Gouts of fire caught the roof of one of the main buildings. When the thatching collapsed a side door burst open and a man dressed in rags with green glowing gloves ran out of the meadery and started firing lightning bolts at the dragon alongside the guards. Even over the screaming and roaring I could hear his maniacal laughter. The dragon targeted him on its way down. The damage to its wings was too severe to stay airborne, so it swooped low and vindictively blasted fire at the guards, the mage, and half a dozen skeevers running around him. I have no idea where the skeevers came from.

It hit the ground hard. Everyone stumbled with the impact and what remained of the meadery went up in a booze-fueled mushroom cloud that sent debris flying. A shard of shrapnel caught my arm. The metal was so hot it scorched through the fabric. The cut wasn’t very deep, but it hurt like a motherfucker.

Tony had been standing with me watching the spectacle from a half-fallen wall by the road up to that point. I guess once the dragon was down, he decided he should probably contribute before swallowing its soul. He grabbed a bow and quiver from a fallen guard and shot into the ribs. The remaining guards continued to go for the head and neck while it viciously snapped at them with teeth the size of steak knives and whipped its tail. Even from where I stood I could see rivulets of blood staining the ground beneath the dragon’s chest and belly. After a while the head drooped to the ground. The dragon stopped moving. It didn’t even die with a roar. A pathetic, wet wheezing sound escaped its throat before it went completely still. After a few minutes, waiting for some sign of life, Tony looked back to me and made a “do I just go up to it?” hand signal. He looked like he was going to be sick. I nodded.

He tentatively walked forward, watching the dragon’s huge amber eyes slowly glaze over. The guards moved in much the same way, like they couldn’t believe it was really dead. Tony edged closer. He stepped up to the side of the head. No glowy lights, no disintegrating flesh. I pulled myself up and started making my way over. I had to pick through rubble and the shredded remains of one of the wings, laying across the road like a splintered, bloody curtain. Laid out it was probably nine or ten meters long. Tony nudged the snout with his boot, which got a nervous laugh out of some of the guards. That’s when the skin started to flake away. They all jumped back with a collective yelp. Light erupted out of the body, swept through the air like whirling vengeance and slammed right into me.

The pain in my head and the tight feeling I’d had since the Barrow exploded with the light and loud, angry buzzing words that I did and didn’t understand pulsed between my ears. I felt like I was being pulled apart on a cellular level. Then it just stopped. Everything stopped; I couldn’t feel my body, but I could vaguely hear voices around me. Panicky shouting, but it was so far away it didn’t seem to matter. Nothing mattered. I think I blacked out after that.

When I finally opened my eyes, I found myself in a quiet, dark room. Except for a slight stiffness in my neck I felt surprisingly okay. A tiny, stupid optimist in the back of my mind wanted to believe that I was waking up from a coma and my mom would be coming in any minute to tearfully berate me for making her fly all the way from Arizona to check on me.

The ornately carved wooden door soon opened, and I was greeted by the sight of Farengar holding a candle and several glass bottles. That’s when I noticed the leather straps holding my wrists and ankles to the bedposts.

Fuck optimism.

His bedside manner is pretty much non-existent. He got the less than sincere apology for the straps out of the way first, claiming it was to keep me from hurting myself, before plying me with potions and barreling into questions. How long had I known I was Dragonborn? What did it feel like to take the dragon’s soul? Did the dragon _say_ anything before it died?

This is exactly why I didn’t want people knowing that I’m not from Nirn, I have become a scientific curiosity in a world where science still involves leaches and poking things with sticks. Being Dragonborn is just another layer on that shit cake. Suffice to say I was in no mood to answer Farengar’s questions. I also refused to drink the potions, since he wouldn’t tell me what they were. Irileth stepped into the room just in time to see him trying to force a thick green sludge down my throat. She pulled him away by the scruff of the neck like a dog.

“She’s not a prisoner or your plaything!” the elf snapped. Oh, I like her.

Farengar started to argue, but she ignored him and went to untie me, muttering about overzealous mages and Nord superstitions being a bad mix. The entire court, plus Tony, was waiting in the main hall. At least Balgruuf left the formalities brief before he called for a council meeting upstairs, I felt awkward enough standing at his war table in dirty, blood stained robes. The council consisted of Irileth, Balgruuf’s brother, Farengar, the steward, and the Imperial captain. Tony was included as a witness. While I recounted the attack, the steward wrote everything down. Farengar stayed in a corner, probably still pouting over not getting to experiment on me.

I missed the Greybeard’s call, but no one else within a hundred miles did, it seems. I know what comes next and I’m _not_ ready. This all feels like a joke. I have no business being the Dragonborn! I’m not a warrior or even a native to this planet! The Daedra owe me answers and I intend to get them, one way or another.

As soon as the minutes were taken and Balgruuf dismissed us Tony looked like he was going to make a beeline for the door. I had to jog to catch up to him. His hair and armor were completely caked in dirt and his eyes were bloodshot. It aged him about ten years. I’m sure I didn’t look any better. 

All I wanted was to know that he wasn’t going to disappear. I need someone to watch my back and we might still have interdimensional comrades wandering around Tamriel looking for help. I can’t rescue them _and_ save the world all by myself. He scrubbed at his stubble so hard I thought he’d take skin off, but begrudgingly agreed. We decided to take the rest of the evening to rest up, then meet at the Mare tomorrow to figure out a plan.

Balgruuf did not declare me a thane and I was immensely relieved to find Lydia was not waiting for me. What _was_ waiting when I got back to the Gray-Mane house made me want to fall at Fralia’s feet in gratitude. Avulstein set up their wash tub in the sunroom and she had hot water on the fire, soap, and a clean change of clothes ready. Least she could do, she said. That sweet old lady is getting a get out of jail free card for her son if I have to write it in my own blood.

Their tub is just wood, with a waxed interior and a bung hole similar to a wine barrel. It is fantastic and I never ever want to leave it. Fralia let me marinade for a while before draining the grey water and refilling it by the bucketful. She wouldn’t let me argue, either. She said that I smelled worse than Avulstein when he returned, and he sent the twins running. I couldn’t help but giggle at that. By “the twins” I know she meant Farkas and Vilkas. With their werewolf senses I can just imagine them hauling ass back to Jorrvaskr holding their noses. Though that does beg the question: where in the actual fuck were they when the dragon attacked? It wouldn’t have changed the outcome, but still we could have used some backup. Four guards, two civilians, and a couple hundred liters of mead were lost in that attack, the Companions could have at least made an appearance.

After scrubbing all the grime away and washing my hair twice Fralia helped me into one of her daughter’s old dresses, which is too long, but no matter. My robes might need to be burned at this point. I had dinner with the family and let Avulstein talk all about the Barrow. He is basically under house arrest again, but maybe our little adventure will be enough to keep him from going crazy for a while. I think he also has a bit of a crush of Mette, time will tell if that turns into anything. I hope it does. They’re cute together.

Tomorrow I guess I’ll have to deal with being Dragonborn. I wish I could stop myself from thinking about it. That leads to overthinking, which leads to anxiety, which I have enough of. As soon as I finish this sentence I’m going to sleep for as long as I possibly can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated over whether to break up this chapter or not, but decided to leave it. Like most of us Ez can't be expected to keep up with her journal entries every single day, she's busy! So, this is a catch-up entry. Also, I'm not trying to go all Shyamalan on you guys, this "twist" was where I was heading all along, but I didn't know that Tony was also an Earthling (someone PLEASE give me a better term to use! Seriously, I'm stuck) until I got there. Thanks for sticking around, this fic has been a lot of fun to write and I appreciate all the positive feedback!


	24. Leave Out All the Rest

Whiterun

Sundas, 6th of Hearthfire 4E201

Woke up in the dark, the first time, with that high gear chest pounding you get from a nightmare that never leaves you with anything solid. Just an impression of dread. I lit a candle and hugged my knees until the adrenaline ran out.

The deep shadows reminded me of being a little kid, when my cousin used to lock me in the closet. Bucky thought it was so fucking funny. The more I screamed and banged on the door the harder he laughed. Then one day I decided not to scream. I just stood there, with my eyes trained on the sliver of light coming in from under the door. Minutes passed and shadows never reached out to grab me. No monsters pushed their noses passed my father’s flannel shirts to take a bite out of me. I remember certainty slowly dawning like a glorious beacon as I stood there in the dark. There are no such things as monsters.

Well, that’s a lesson I’m unlearning.

I picked up the candle from the bedside table and stared at it for a long time. My memory of taking the dragon soul is just a confusing jumble of panic and disbelief. I didn’t hear the Greybeards call and I certainly didn’t do any Shouting.

Softly, I whispered _Fus_ at the candle. The flame not only puffed out, but I could feel and hear droplets of wax splatter across the mattress in front of me.

Funny, the word doesn’t feel special. I thought it would, or at least leave a foreign flavor when I tried it, like fumbling to pronounce something you’ve only ever seen in print. Maybe that has something to do with my foreknowledge. I already knew the meaning, so it follows that it wouldn’t be a surprise.

Aiming for the afterimage I whispered _Yol_. A tiny plume of flame snaked from between my lips and caught the wick. I almost dropped the candle as I shuddered back against the headboard. It was like the time I burned off my eyebrows. My skin isn’t damaged, but I could definitely feel the heat and smell the tiny hairs on my upper lip scorch ever so slightly.

I don’t know how long I lay in the fetal position trying to figure out if anything was different. I don’t feel empowered or particularly dragon-like. My thoughts still seem to be my own. As far as I can tell there aren’t any other personalities lurking around in there.

Really, I just feel like I’ve been hit by a steam roller.

I must have fallen back asleep at one point because when I finally dragged my butt from under the covers it was full day and a boujee little breakfast was waiting. Nothing cheers me up like food. And it’s autumn now, so everything is apple themed. Toast with apple butter, hot cider, and an adorable baked pygmy pumpkin filled with apple cabbage stew with pork belly croutons waited to be devoured and devour it I did.

I also found something draped over the back of a chair I hadn’t realized I missed until I saw them: pants! No more gusts of wind up the scooter for me!

Eorlund and Fralia had already left for work, so it was just me and Avulstein in the house. Poor guy. He’s so bored! I invited him to come to the Bannered Mare with me, but he doesn’t want to push his luck. He’s sure that if one of the Battle-Borns see him they’ll immediately out him to the nearest Imperial agent, and he’s probably not wrong. I want to help him and his brother, but I’m not breaking into the Battle-Born house. Maybe there’s a diplomatic solution. I need to pick the steward’s brain, he would know.

Even though we had traveled together and know each other well enough at this point Avulstein came off as nervous, almost shy, with me. I was confused at first. Then it occurred to me, everyone has heard about what happened with the dragon. Any soldier who witnessed the attack or gossipy courtier who happened to get a seat at Dragons Reach afterwards would have heard about my involvement.

I asked Avulstein if the whole city knew who I was. The short answer is yes and no. He said the entire city likely knows by now that a Dragonborn appeared in Whiterun, but the jarl tried to keep my name off the record. That checks, when Balgruuf made his little thank you speech in the keep (I’ll admit I wasn’t really paying attention to all the formal talk) he only addressed me as 'Mistress Emard.' That won’t last. Sooner or later someone will blab and my full name, physical description, and shoe size will be topics of discussion in every tavern from here to Markarth.

I’d like to hang onto my anonymity for as long as possible. With everything else I’m meant to do I really don’t want to have to deal with cultists or Thalmor or any other bullshit antagonists coming at me because they heard I’m Dragonborn. At least I’m unremarkable physically. They’ll be looking for a short Breton, that’s a pretty broad search.

Avulstein’s sister came in then to wash the vegetables she had been harvesting from their family plot and to scold her brother for not locking the door. I have no idea what Olfina does, but she always seems to be in a rush to go do it.

She turned to me and said, “Mother wants you to have this.” before dropping a key in my hand and skipping off to the kitchen.

They gave me a key to their house. I mean, I’m glad they trust me, but this is trippy.

I’m just floored by this family’s generosity. All they needed was a good word from Axel and they’re giving me free access to their home and trusting me with their son’s safety. That’s nuts. For all their standoffishness with mages and outsiders Nords seem to put a lot of stock in personal recommendations. Interesting.

I was almost scared to venture out. Most people have their hands full with bringing in the harvest and cleaning up the unholy mess at the meadery, so the city had partially emptied. That was a blessing. If anyone I passed recognized me, they didn’t make it obvious.

Tony was easy to spot at a table near the front of the Mare. He didn’t exactly look pleased to see me. I know what it looks like when someone is convinced you’re going to ask them for a favor they don’t want to give. The fact that he met me like he said he would was encouraging, so I tried to keep it light. Instead of diving right into strategy and to do’s I asked him what he had been on his way to when the Imperials arrested him. That got him talking. Maybe it was the amount of ale he’d already had, or the relative security of carrying out the whole conversation in English, but he gave me a pretty thorough idea of what his life had been like and what he’d been doing before Helgen.

His first year in Skyrim had been a nightmare, one he almost didn’t survive. He’d already told me that his first clear memory was waking up in the apothecary’s basement in his underwear. What he hadn’t mentioned before was that the apothecary was the one who had taken his things and the man was a fucking sadist. Tony worked out that he meant to experiment on him pretty quick. He was harvested regularly. Blood, chunks of hair and skin, even saliva and fingernails were taken. The sick bastard pulled out a molar and packed salt into the cavity to keep it from festering. Each session the apothecary came back more frustrated, clearly not getting the results he wanted. Tony had to watch, while chained and hobbled, as his stuff was ripped apart, ground and liquefied with body parts and other ingredients, then fed to caged skeevers to watch the effect. This went on for weeks. Finally, one night Tony managed to work the iron spike fixing his chain to the wall loose and escaped. All he managed to save was the broken remnants of his wristwatch.

He pulled it out for me to look at. All that's left is a sad, stained leather strap with a round face hanging from one end. The glass was so scratched you couldn’t tell what was beneath it. Tony wrapped it in a cloth and stowed it back in his coat like a precious relic.

I asked what happened to the apothecary. His face went dark. “I don’t know, but I hope he burned along with that fucking town.”

After escaping he eventually made it to Falkreath. He did basically the same thing I did, just kept hanging around learning the language from the locals and offering to work for food. A few months later he met a girl named Naalia. I didn’t ask for details, he volunteered that she kept him from killing himself. They tooled around the province together for a while, she introduced him to her Thieves Guild friends in Riften. He became a favorite with some of the higher ups. They taught him all about how things work in Skyrim’s underbelly and he took to it like a fish to water. Naalia didn’t like his reluctance to settle down, she wanted to leave the guild and go straight, he didn’t, so she left one day without a word. After that he stuck to the guild life (probably self-medicating but that’s my conjecture).

The reason he has a large bounty on his head in Solitude is from an embarrassingly botched job. He was supposed to break into the warehouse by the docks and steal a manifest and a trading agreement. It should have been simple, in and out, but he admitted that he’d been sloppy. Reason being a courier tracked him down with a letter from one of his guild buddies informing him of Naalia’s death and that her son was being sent to Honor Hall.

He couldn’t focus on the job after that. Several workers spotted him, chased him off, and reported the incident to the guard with a full description. That of course led to one of the soldiers who commandeered Axel’s wagon recognizing him later.

That gave me an in to ask about the son. Tony looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. Naalia gave the boy his last name and he’s the right age. After the botched job Tony had resolved to go see the child.

“I know I would be a shit father.” He said miserably. “But I just wanted to see him, you hear things about that orphanage, but I don’t know…”

“You’re not sure if he would be better off with you?” I chimed in.

He nodded. I didn’t want to push him too hard, but it was such a perfect opportunity. I asked him about the orphanage. It’s worse than I thought. The kids aren’t just neglected, they’re discreetly sold to the highest bidder. Usually people looking for cheap labor, tiny fingers to do delicate work, but some are groomed for unsavory work I’d rather not think about right now. Tony also mentioned that Naalia died three months ago.

Oh shit. Is that enough time for the kid to run away back to Windhelm, and perform the black sacrament? I don’t want that quest line to start at all.

“You should go collect him.” I said, hoping that it sounded more like wise advice and less like the panicky demand of someone who doesn’t want the Dark Brotherhood sniffing around.

Even if someone from the Brotherhood shows up and does his bidding Aventus still ends up back in the orphanage. That’s the best-case scenario. If it’s not the Dragonborn who finds him will a Brotherhood agent take the contract from a kid who plans on paying them with a _plate_ , or will they kill him just for wasting their time? It would be better all-around if Tony would go get him and leave the Brotherhood out of it entirely. If Tony feels like he can’t take care of the kid, he could at least leave Aventus with someone who won’t mistreat him or sell him into slavery. No child deserves that.

_*There has to be a way to deal with evil orphanage lady, other than assassination. I’ll look into that later._

I suggested that he bring Aventus back to Whiterun. If no one will take him in I will pay for him to stay at the Bannered Mare for as long as I can til we can work something out.

That kicked off the discussion we needed to have about what we’re going to do from here out. The way I see it the only way I’m going to survive all of this is to become a Shout master. I’m not good enough at magic and I’m no warrior. That leaves shouting and being sneaky. But that means that I’ll have to climb up that big ass mountain and talk to the Greybeards, and I’ll need to find and learn words of power. If the Greybeards can’t teach me all the words that means scouting locations and finding as many word walls as possible. That will take entirely too long for me by myself.

When Tony asked me how I know so much about the Dragonborn myth I told him I learned about Nord lore while I was living with the bards. _Technically_ , not a lie. I read a lot of lore while I was learning Tamrielic.

“Look,” I said, “you don’t have to help me. I would understand if you take off and just live your life. But the dragons aren’t going to go away. If the Nord legends are true then I’m obligated to try to stop Alduin, you’re not. But I think there are others like us, maybe stranded years apart, maybe on other continents, I don’t know. If you and I survived they might have too. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t at least try to find them. I mean, what if there really is a way home and I’m not just delusional, huh?”

He smirked at that and hefted a tired sigh. “I’m not sure if I could even function if we found a way home. Any major events in the last twelve years that I should know about?”

Internal scream of conflict. “Some, but nothing a few hours of internet research couldn’t catch you up on.”

We agreed that he would go to Riften, get his son, and see about recruiting a few scouts. Then we’ll meet back in Whiterun.

I need to get up to High Hrothgar before winter sets in and it becomes impossible to get up the mountain safely. But first I’m making a detour back to Riverwood to see if Delphine already has the horn of Jergen something-or-other. I’m not going all the way down into that tomb just so I can be told to go rent a room in an attic that doesn’t exist. It’s one thing to waste game time, at least you get a word of power and XP out of it; IRL I do not have time for round-abouts. And frankly, the Blades aren’t going to be much help. I already know what I’ll need to defeat Alduin, so I don’t need Esbern to tell me. Still, I don’t want the old man to get nabbed by Thalmor, so I also asked Tony to deliver a letter to the Ragged Flagon for him. Just a simple warning. “The Thalmor are looking for you, relocate immediately.” Simple, and to the point. I wish I could remember Delphine’s passphrase, but I can’t. Something about a specific date. Ugh. It’s getting harder and harder to remember. As paranoid as he is, I hope Esbern decides to listen. He might try to dig in like a tick and get himself killed or captured, I’d rather that didn’t happen.

Before Tony and I parted ways I gave him two warnings.

One: do not, under any circumstances, agree to a drinking contest with a Breton named Sam.

Two: Leave Mercer Fray and the Guild out of this."

Tony gave me the drunken side-eye. “You weren’t raised Catholic by chance?”

That struck me as a weird question. “No, why?”

“No reason. I gotta take a leak. I’ll leave tomorrow and see you in what? Three weeks?”

I nodded and returned to the Gray-Manes. I’m giving myself two days to prepare.

To Do’s:

_ Get a good map of Skyrim

_ Plot the fastest route from Riverwood to Ivarstead on said map

_ Write to Idgrod, Viarmo, Onmund, Breylna, Juni, Falion, and Axel

_ Talk to Mette

_ Talk to the steward (Proventus? Promethius? Pro-something)

_ Hire scary elf at the Drunken Huntsman? (need muscle)

_ Food, water skins, and potions!

_ Ask Avulstein to show me how to sharpen axe

_ Sharpen axe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the hiatus. This will happen more and more until probably the end of September. I might not be able to post til then, but I promise I'm not abandoning this project. I'm having too much fun!


	25. Interlude

Whiterun

Mordas, 7th of Hearthfire 4E201

Busy day. I’m happy to report that so far no one has given me any grief about what happened with the dragon. A few people are pointedly keeping their distance, but that’s okay.

Tony left this morning. I managed to get up early enough to see him off, which surprised us both. He hugged me sideways and told me not to do anything stupid before marching off with all his worldly goods strapped to his back and most of my septims in his pocket. Push comes to shove I’m sure Grelod can be bought. I don’t want her dead, no matter what shady shit she’s into. It would be great if this all works out, that Aventus is safe and can be removed from the orphanage without a lot of difficulty. I have a nagging feeling that it won’t be that easy, though. Sigh. Plan for the worst, hope for the best.

I also have to make myself acknowledge that this might be the last time I see Tony. I don’t want to hijack his life, I really don’t. Aside from being from the same world I have no claim on his loyalty and no right to ask for it. But I want it, very badly. I hadn’t realized in my previous life how heavily I relied on cultural references and sarcasm just to communicate with other people. Now that I’ve finally found a person who knows what “jumping the shark” means and rolls his eyes at my terrible SpongeBob impression, I want to cling to the familiarity like a selfish little barnacle.

If he decides to take a different path I will be sad, but not angry. He has the right to walk away, I told him as much. Hopefully he will still step up and be the dad Aventus needs. 

Climbed back up to Dragonsreach to see the steward. Farangar glared from his worktable when he saw me pass by but said nothing. Still pouting, I guess. For his part Proventus was pleasantly surprised that I sought him out with questions. He reminds me of a high school teacher, all excited to have a student who actually _wants_ to learn. We talked judicial politics. A lot of it went right over my head, I’ll blame that on the language barrier. Lots of Imperial jargon. Cyrodiilic sounds like backwards Latin to me.

I didn’t want to just come out and say that the Battle-Born clan conspired to get Avulstein’s brother arrested, so I had to ask hypothetical side-step questions. What if someone was falsely imprisoned by the empire? Is there an appeals process? His eyes lit up with interest and we spent several hours talking about the court system in Skyrim, such as it is.

A jarl can arrest anyone in their hold for any reason (OMFG). However, the people of the Hold can choose to appeal on behalf of the prisoner. If enough people speak up, or are influential enough, sentences can be reduced, or jail time swapped for community service or payable fines. Ultimately the decision is still up to the jarl though, or the steward if the jarl passes the decision to him. When a prisoner is taken by Imperials it’s a little different. A jarl can appeal if the prisoner was taken from their Hold, but they don’t really have the jurisdiction to do anything else. Imperials generally don’t listen to “the rabble.” They want to be seen as unshakingly fair and principled, but bribery in the time of the White Gold Concordant is on the rise. The Thalmor also have the right to formally request custody of a prisoner if they’re believed to be involved with any crime that violates the Concordant in any way. Proventus’ tone soured a touch at that.

So, if you’re falsely imprisoned in Skyrim you had better have rich, influential friends, or proof of innocence so solid (and publicly displayed) not even a Thalmor justiciar could poke a hole in it. Not shocking, really.

Even before giving most of my money away I didn’t have enough to bribe Thorald out of prison, so that was never on the table anyway. Fralia opened up a little bit about it, tearfully and only after Eorlund left for the day. Thorald went missing about a week before I turned up with Axel. He had been talking about joining the Stormcloaks for a while before that, so no one was surprised when he up and disappeared, at least not at first. Thing is Eorlund has connections and no Stormcloak regiment has admitted him. Still the family didn’t really start to get worried until recently, when they got word back from one of Fralia’s friends, Angelina, the nice old lady who runs the apothecary shop in Solitude, that Thorald was seen in Imperial custody being marched up to the Keep. After that, nothing. Now Fralia is freaking out and no one knows what to do, except blame the Battle-Borns. Proving their involvement won’t solve anything, it will just make their family feud worse, so I’m going to try the appeal thing. I wrote a rough draft and immediately saw a problem. Falion is right, my script in their language looks like cursive cuneiform. It’s really bad. I sent it along with a letter to Viarmo this morning, asking him to polish it up and send it to Falk Firebeard on behalf of the Grey-Mane family, with many apologies sprinkled in for asking for such a favor after being away so long. I hope he doesn’t take offense, but I need help. Who better than a seasoned lyricist, right?

The more I think about it the more I miss Solitude and Viarmo in particular. I’m not sure now if it’s just the _idea_ of him I miss, or _him_. The bards were my first Skyrim family, then Idgrod and her people, the mages, now the Grey-Manes. I hope to find more. I want a network of adoptees, not just because it will help keep me alive, but because it will keep me _sane_.

Got a map, wet stone kit, and some more ink and paper from Belethor. He’s slimier in person. Good looking and he knows it, which is just the worst. I suspect that the map is wildly inaccurate, but it’s better than nothing.

I’ve gotten to be friendly with Arcadia and the biddies who hang out at her shop. I’ve learned a great deal just by watching and chatting with the local mid-wives and Olava the Feeble, who is anything but. Standardized measurements aren’t really a thing, which is where the variation on potion strength and effectiveness really plays. An old hat who has brewed hundreds of potions in her lifetime will get the ratio right through trial and error. An amateur without a mentor can fumble the proportions and make something too weak or too strong for its purpose. Even with a recipe it’s tricky, like trying to follow medieval baking instructions. It will call for “a cup” but what’s a cup? A tea mug? One of those hollowed out ox horns? I asked Olava and she just patted my arm in sympathy. I’m getting tired of feeling like the dumbest person in the room all the time. They do have standard weights, measured by copper cylinders on simple fulcrum scales. I borrowed Arcadia’s and watched Olava through the whole process of making a basic stamina potion, asking her to put each ingredient in a little bowl for me to measure before she added it to the mixture. We did this for several other potions, too. Health, magica, even invisibility which I got very excited about (since I still can’t seem to control that spell at will) until I realized that the potion is just as finicky. Dosage and strength vary from person to person, so you have to take things like weight and age into consideration too. It’s weird, but you can tell a spell is wrong by the way it sounds and a potion by the way it tastes. You can just tell when it’s not right. I’ll have to tweak it until I find the ratios that work for me. I can’t keep buying ingredients, so that meant a foraging excursion this afternoon with Olfina. We didn’t find much, everything is still very scorched in places. We did get to see the tundra at sunset, which was very pretty. The meadery is still smoldering, but at least the fire didn’t spread. The clean up will have to wait until after the harvest when there are more free hands. 

I found out Olfina is apprenticing to become a healer. That’s what she does all day, practice alchemy and trail Olava. That leaves Avulstein and Thorald to take up Eorlund’s legacy, so I understand Fralia’s anxiety a little better now. Of the seven children she and Eorlund had only three live, and one is in prison. He’ll survive if I can help it. I have faith that Viarmo will rewrite my appeal better than I ever could. If that doesn’t work, I’ll find another way.

I’m going to try to sleep now. Off to Riverwood at first light. Avulstein is coming (his mom is not happy about it either, but she’s more upset with him than me). I suspect his decision was part boredom, part wish to see me not dead, and probably a word from Mette. He's already gotten to that stage when it comes to her and he doesn't even realize it yet. It’s adorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> September was worse than I thought. I'll spare you guys the gory details; it was nuts. I'm still catching up, but I feel bad that I haven't done anything with this fic in over a month! So, here's a mostly preparatory, "let's take a minute" kind of chapter. I'll hopefully get back to a semi-normal posting schedule here soon. Thank you for your comments and kudos, they really make my day. Be well, stay safe, all that jazz.


	26. Sidetracked

Riverwood

Tirdas, 8th of Hearthfire 4E201

I want a clock. Seeing Tony’s broken wristwatch reminded me how much more focused I felt when I knew how much time was really passing. I haven’t even seen a sundial since I got here, come to think of it. I wish I was mechanically minded. I could describe wind-up clocks I’ve seen, even draw one, but someone smarter than me would have to figure out how to put it together. All I know is gears and springs are involved. I think if there was one group of people in Tamriel who would have seen the benefit of time-keeping it would have been the Dwemer. Maybe there’s a schematic out there somewhere? I’ll try to remember to write to Calcelmo. It’s way down on my priority list, so we’ll see when/if I can work it in.

Before leaving Whiterun I did manage to get through my to-dos. Mette can’t up and leave to go scouting just yet, not until her youngest is on his own, but she promised to look out for good recruits. The pitch will be simple: if you’re out adventuring and happen to see a word wall from the Dragon era mark the location on your map and bring it to Whiterun for clinky, shiny gold.

Incidentally, I remembered Cicero this morning and face palmed hard. There is just too much to keep track of! And that left me with a last-minute dilemma. Do I take a detour north in the exact opposite direction I need to go on the off chance he’s already stranded there, or go with my original plan and hope that it will wait? I decided to stick with my itinerary. I did take an extra five minutes to leave a note for Axel at the stables. I asked him to look out for a stranded Imperial, if he decides to take that route. I’m sure the jester outfit will put him off if I don’t say anything. I’d leave it alone entirely except I have a vague recollection that if farmer Loreius doesn’t help with the wagon something very bad happens to him. It’s not a huge stretch to imagine Cicero getting stab happy if he’s left stranded too long.

Arrived in Riverwood around mid-day. Our last trip here was uneventful, so we don’t anticipate any problems, but Avulstein is still maintaining a low profile. Well, as low a profile as a six-and-a-half-foot pile of blue-eyed muscle _can_ maintain, anyway.

I felt pretty good about myself when I walked into the Sleeping Giant and asked Delphine for the attic room. There was a slight chance that she hadn’t even gone to the tomb yet, and I might be jumping the gun, but the look on her face (priceless!) told me she knew exactly what I was talking about.

I left Avulstein in the room and went downstairs with her. She didn’t launch into the scripted speech like I thought she might, but instead just stood at her map table with her arms folded, staring at me. So, I folded my arms and stared right back.

“You’re…not what I expected.” She finally said, looking me up and down.

Understatement of the year right there.

I shrugged. “I believe you have something I need?”

“How did you know the Greybeards would ask for the horn? I have been preparing for this for weeks. You were with the party that retrieved the Dragonstone, I remember seeing you in Farangar’s office. There’s no way you’ve been up to High Hrothgar and back since then.”

The timeline is going to bite me in the ass, I just know it. I tried to look confident and calm.

“That’s true, but I am a scholar of sorts. As soon as I heard about the dragon attack on Helgen I began researching all the lore I could find. The Greybeards are nothing if not predictable.”

I hope I got that line right. It sounds right. I think.

Delphine’s eyes narrowed. “You read some lore and deduced that the Greybeards would ask the Dragonborn to retrieve the Horn of Jergen Wind-Caller.” She didn’t phrase it like a question, but almost like an accusation. “Then absorbed a dragon’s soul and immediately traveled to Ustengrav to retrieve the horn, and all of this was accomplished within the last three days?”

Crap.

“Of course not. I hired a professional to do it before we left for the Barrow. I was convinced that an acquaintance of mine was the Dragonborn, since he was at Helgen and survived the attack, but I was wrong. Retrieving the horn was meant to save him time. Imagine my surprise when my hireling came back with a letter instead, as well as an interesting account of a group of bandits and necromancers fighting in the tomb.” I gave her a pointed look. I always suspected that that was her doing. Pitting the two groups against each other would have been an effective way of distracting the draugr while she snuck further into the complex. 

Delphine’s lips puckered and her eyes narrowed even further. It made all the lines in her face stand out in the lamplight. She’s a lot older than I assumed. Her hair is more silver than blonde and the skin just under her chin has that telltale middle-age sag.

“Hiring someone to do your dirty work hardly sounds befitting of a dragon slayer of legend. I don’t suppose you can _prove_ that you’re Dragonborn?”

I turned to the practice dummy in the corner and sent what I thought of as a moderate _FUS_ at it. The thing smashed against the wall, sending splinters and hay flying.

“Sorry, I’m still getting used to it.”

“Yes, well…” Delphine huffed. “that’s impressive but it doesn’t prove anything.”

Oh for the love of all that is good and holy is this self-righteous interloper annoying. She got on with her explanation about the Dragonstone and how she plotted the locations of the dragon burial mounds. I should have anticipated a mandatory detour to Kynesgrove. Delphine is far too stubborn and paranoid to talk into handing over the horn without proof that I’m not just some fancy thu’um-wielding protégé of Ulfric Stormcloak. At least she has enough tact not to come out and accuse me of being a Thalmor spy. And yes, future me reading this, I know that those two things are contradictory.

So, now I have to go all the way to Kynesgrove to devour a dragon soul for Delphine’s viewing pleasure and not die in the process. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Avulstein was more than a little excited at the prospect of heading east. We’ll have to stop in Windhelm to resupply. Let him have his hero worship.

I could tell my Ulfric Stormcloak story to anyone who will listen, but what would be the point? At the end of the day I will have just put another ring on the ever-growing target on my back. I can’t afford to lose the few allies I have. It’s better to spread my own influence independently anyway, the ‘mighty jarl’ can hang himself out to dry without my help.

Windhelm

Fredas, 11th of Hearthfire 4E201

Calixto escaped. It’s the first thing Elda said when I popped into the Candlehearth to say hello. Son-of-a-monkey-slapping-bitch! It happened the day after I left Windhelm, too. I managed to track Juni down, but all she could tell me is that he somehow escaped from the dungeon without a trace. The guard on duty didn’t hear or see anything (he was transferred immediately) and the door to the cell was still locked.

Great. Now there’s a homicidal Houdini on the loose and he’s pissed at me.

The three of us got to Kynesgrove in record time, thanks to the horses Delphine borrowed for the trip. My ass is killing me. I haven’t ridden a horse since I was nine years old and even then it was just a fifteen-minute romp around the grounds at day camp. Delphine kept criticizing my form. Ugh. Still, any way to shave time off this little side trip is welcome. I am not a mountain climber and couldn’t begin to guess what elevation High Hrothgar is at. What I do know is that the days are getting shorter and colder. I do _not_ want to climb up there in the snow and if I miss my window what can I do? Hang out in Ivarstead and wait for spring? Balls to that.

There were no signs of a dragon when we arrived, much to Delphine’s obvious annoyance. And she kept looking at me like it was my fault. Like if I was the _real_ Dragonborn the mound would have immediately irrupted in a screaming shower of dirt and reconstructed skin and bone the moment I showed up. I wouldn’t give a shit if she weren’t holding the horn hostage til I either die or prove her wrong.

I got up enough courage to ask her why we had to go through this farce if she’s already made up her mind that I’m a fraud. To her credit she gave me a straight answer.

She said, “Because if you are a fraud, I will see your head removed from your body.”

Okay then.

“As long as we understand each other.” I answered.

I should be quaking in my boots, I know she absolutely means it, but I also know how this will play out which makes it much easier to put on a brave face. She just needs to see me absorb a soul and she’ll back off. Assuming the dragon doesn’t squish my corpse into salsa, that is.

***********************************

Of course, Alduin couldn’t show up in the daylight to wake up his buddy. The inn roof shook so violently as he flew by that every one of us sat bolt upright and anyone in the village still somehow asleep was roused by his ear-splitting roars as he circled the mound. The three of us jostled through the confused throng and marched uphill along with a handful of soldiers in Stormcloak colors.

Alduin is so black he practically disappeared against the night sky. I didn’t bother shooting at him. Delphine and Avulstein took my lead and concentrated on the dragon rising from the mound. I really wanted the bones to discombobulate before it ever pulled itself together, but when is anything that easy? My fireballs didn’t seem to do anything but mildly annoy it. After five or six in a row I was exhausted already. Delphine shoved a bow and quiver into my hands before launching herself at the dragon’s flank. There was no moon, so it was hard to see where everyone else was. I was so scared of accidently hitting a person that the arrows I did manage to successfully shoot flew over its back because I was aiming too high. I think I hit it once. Maybe. In the dark and the noise and the cloud of smoke and dust rising around it I can’t be sure.

The soldiers fanned out, trying to box the dragon in before it could get airborne. After I ran out of arrows I abandoned the bow. I tried to throw ice at it. I really hope Delphine and Avulstein didn’t see the pitiful shard I managed. Ice is harder than fire. No idea why. I gulped one of the little magica potions Olava helped me make, which tastes like garlicy ass, and tried again. I could hear a splink sound as the blast of frost and pebbly hale shattered against the dragon’s leg. That also didn't seem to harm him.

When the dragon's flesh knit enough to form vocal chords it started to speak. I think I might have been the only one who understood him. It was a weird feeling, like I was remembering something that never happened, if that makes any sense. 

"I am Sahloknir! Hear my Voice and despair!" the dragon called.

It would have been a triumphant statement, had Delphine's blade not shot up through the soft spot under his chin. Sahloknir reared back with a roar. I could just see the glint of the tip of the sword poking up from under his tongue. I managed to find my feet and shot a fireball right into his open mouth before leaping back to let Avulstein smash his war hammer into the dragon's face. A wet pop showered us both with hot liquid as its eye exploded, followed by a shriek of surprise and anger. Since magic wasn't helping at all I pulled my ax from the holster at my hip and started slashing at the nearest wing. The taut, leathery membrane gave way easily. Sahloknir frantically beat the bloody appendage away from me and a small claw on one of the fingers caught me by the robe. It sent me flying backwards into the dirt. I managed to shake off the daze just in time to roll away from the spiked tail whipping across the ground as the dragon tried to fend off the attackers at his sides. 

As soon as I got to my feet I aimed myself at his underbelly and went for a softball slide while releasing the loudest YOL! I could manage. Dragonfire erupted out of me, so hot I thought I'd immerge from under Sahloknir looking like Anakin Skywalker. He screamed then, rearing back on his hind legs, exposing his belly to the arrows and blades of the warriors, who took full advantage. Meanwhile I scrambled out of the way, but found myself slumped against a smoldering log, unable to breath. 

I'm not sure who made the killing blow. I was too concerned with my non-functioning lungs. It was one of the soldiers who found me, choking on nothing, and called for the others. Delphine didn't hesitate. She dropped to the ground next to me, grabbed my face and forced her mouth over mine, blowing air down my throat. When I stopped wheezing and coughing she sat back on her heals with the dawn light just coming over the trees and smiled. 

"Wait for the fire to go out before breathing in next time." she said helpfully, leaving Avulstein to pick me up. 

He carried me over to the dragon's corpse, glinting with streaks of blood in the blue light and just as before it collapsed back into the pile of bones and scales Alduin had resurrected. This time I didn't pass out. I felt Sahloknir's soul rush into me like furious gusts of hot and cold wind twined together. For a fleeting moment I felt both immensely angry and strangely...impressed? I'm not sure how else to describe the feeling. Then it was gone and I was just me again with a fierce pain in my chest and pounding headache. The Stormcloaks kept their distance, staring and muttering amongst themselves. Shit. They'll report all of this to their jarl of course. 

The soldiers gathered what scales they could carry. Most of the bones are simply too heavy to move, though Avulstein did snag an eight inch chunk from the eye socket he'd smashed. He carried me all the way back to the inn. It was a quiet march. One of the soldiers was badly injured, so they trailed behind us with their man on a makeshift stretcher. Delphine maintained a dignified pace in front. A small, anxious crowd waited in the village, watching us as the sun rose and a tiny smattering of snowflakes fell around us. I was allowed to walk back into the inn on my own, but Avulstein wouldn't leave my side. I probably looked like I was going to fall over. I certainly felt that way. 

They let me sleep through most of the day. When I finally got up to eat something I found that every resident of Kynesgrove, which granted isn't that many people, wanted to talk to me. Most just thanked me and shook my hand. A few kissed my knuckles, which was uncomfortable, but I let them do it so they wouldn't be insulted. One of the last was an older woman with a ratty shawl pulled over her shoulders. This turned out to be Onmund's mother, who had heard of me, and what I'd done in Windhelm already. Onmund returned to the college, like he said he would, and will hopefully get the letter I sent him before leaving Whiterun soon. Like everyone else I just asked for his help in finding word walls. To my surprise when I mentioned this to his mother, Inge, her eyes lit up and she promised to help in any way she can. How she plans on doing that isn't really clear to me, but it was sweet of her to offer. 

I also got a blessing from the keepers of the wood. Huh. Not sure how they knew what was happening, but three hags in fur cloaks with a long, twisted staff each appeared at the inn to blow sacred smoke in my face. That upset Delphine, since I'm still coughing and my throat and lungs are still raw. But I am now apparently protected by Kyne. I tried not to let my incredulity show, just thanked them and went back to eating soup, since that's all Delphine will let me have. 

We head to Ivarstead in the morning. From there Delphine will return to Riverwood and Avulstein and me will start up the seven thousand steps. Yay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should mention that I am not medically trained in any way and have no idea if Delphine's field CPR would be the most appropriate thing to do for someone with this kind of lung damage. It just seemed like what she'd do, you know? Also, Sahloknir is a little bitch. 
> 
> Happy reading! Hope you're all well.


	27. Eastmarch

Sundas, 13th of Hearthfire 4E201

The plan had been to double-back to Windhelm, then cross the bridge and take the road south along the river. Unfortunately, an Imperial patrol was spotted in that direction according to the locals and Delphine won’t risk being spotted. I tried to protest, on the grounds that it will take longer and I need to get up to High Hrothgar as soon as possible. I was overruled. Avulstein made it clear that his job is to keep me alive and he can’t do that if he’s arrested by “some Thalmor-loving milk drinker.”

After breakfast Del took one look at the map I bought in Whiterun and said it looked like it was plotted by a shopkeeper. (Dammit Belethor!) So, we’ll be relying on her directions.

With stealth in mind we left Kynesgrove before dawn, cutting through the woods and skirting a giant camp. They are massive! But you still smell them before you see them, like a barnyard inside a junior high locker room full of moldy jock straps. We kept our distance and while I’m sure they saw us they didn’t seem bothered. Avulstein looked like he wanted to take them on, but he restrained himself. When I asked him where the general animosity towards giants comes from, he looked genuinely surprised. He said giants are only peaceful when their herds are healthy. When they get hungry or feel threatened, they regularly go after the Nord’s crops and livestock.

Mammoths also leave a huge mess everywhere they go. The poorest farmers harvest the tundra for fertilizer, but it can be dangerous if they get too close to the big piles of precious shit. (That scene in Jurassic Park flashed in my brain and made me giggle. It’s KILLING me that no one else here gets that reference! Delphine just rolled her eyes at me.)

Once we were clear of the sparse trees there was virtually no cover, which put my companions on edge. The terrain is so unstable in places that we had to walk the horses. Geysers, steaming fissures, and pools of sulfurous water pocket the ground. It brings to mind a deforested Yellow Stone, sort of. The swaths that look like dry, solid clay completely crumble underfoot. We spent most of the day ankle deep in smelly mud rich ladies back home would probably pay good money to slather on themselves.

The dragon eyrie in the middle of the hot springs was plainly visible in the distance, but we didn’t see or hear anything in that direction. I assumed Alduin hadn’t gotten to that one yet. I knew there’s a word of power up there, so we made a small detour. I didn’t want to add time to the trip, but while we’re here I figured I might as well get it over with.

I should stop assuming. It never goes well.

The last thing I wanted after yesterday was to fight another dragon. For one thing my throat is still beyond raw and my left thigh is scraped and bruised. 

Sahloknir at least stayed on the ground and we had half a dozen Stormcloaks to help distract him. This one must have been out hunting. We climbed up the steep plateau and I was just approaching the word wall, which like the one at the Barrow hummed ASMR static right into my nervous system, when Avulstein spotted the dov diving out of the clouds to the north. It circled once before swooping down to blast frost at us. It was like the damned thing had a reservoir of liquid nitrogen in its gut, the stuff that pelted us was frozen solid and slightly chunky. The cold wasn’t long lasting but stung like hell and made it impossible to see. I reflexively countered with fire while Del and Avulstein shot at it.

It took its sweet time landing. Just kept circling, swooping, yacking up showers of frozen dragon loogies, only to fly away again. Wash, rinse, repeat. It must have been compelled to protect the word wall, otherwise it could have just flown away when it got tired. Instead it alighted on the wall with a growl of frustration. And I don’t think I’m personifying either, he looked _pissed_.

The dragon snapped at Del, who is far faster than she looks and kept zigging and dodging while I shot fire balls at its soft parts. It crawled down from the wall so it could use its tail and claws. Avulstein has impressive aim with a bow, but the moment the dragon got low enough he switched back to his war hammer. He whacked it between the eyes so hard that it stood completely still, stunned for a few seconds. The dragon shook himself and made a sort of choking noise deep in his throat before suddenly whipping its tail forward. A long black spike caught Avulstein’s left shoulder and sent him sprawling backwards. The rock was so steep that he tumbled downhill, leaving a trail of blood all the way to the bottom. That’s when I heard Delphine screaming orders at me over the dragon’s low thu’ums (he was cussing us out) to cover her while she ducked behind a boulder.

I still go invisible during combat, but it doesn’t seem to matter against dragons. He could probably smell me. The pause gave him a second wind and he started fiercely snapping his jaws at my general direction in sharp, quick succession. He was just too close. There was no room to land a blow and retreat in time. I resorted to throwing fire into his eyes, then rolled into a narrow space between two slabs of stone that had collapsed against each other. By then Del had reemerged with her bow drawn. The dragon continued to snap at me, catching the hem of my robes, which became visible again as he used them to pull me out of hiding. I dragged my feet as hard as I could, but only ended up losing my balance and falling backwards on my ass as the dragon yanked me forward. Everything slowed down, like a car crash. My view down the dragon’s multilayered purple gullet might have been interesting if I wasn’t sure that I was about to go sliding down it in several pieces. Through a veil of dozens of huge teeth I watched Delphine take aim in slow motion, then fire into the side of the dragon’s head.

The shriek that erupted from it was deafening. And for the first time I saw a dragon die suddenly, not by a thousand cuts, but one well-placed final blow. I felt the breath escape it, cold and wet leaving little crystals of ice on the shredded bits of my robe still stuck in its maw. The head lolled to the ground with its jaws hanging open and went still.

I just lay there in the dirt for a while, looking up at the sky in shock. Del limped over to me, which was when I realized for the first time that she had a gash in her calf. A spike got her; I just hadn’t seen it. Once I managed to get to my feet I saw that Delphine’s arrow only barely stuck out of the dragon’s ear canal; the rest firmly lodged in its brain.

My novice robes are now a crop top, but I did manage to walk away with only a few more bruises and three long, shallow scratches up my leg.

This dragon’s soul felt more bewildered than anything and sent a final bone-deep chill into me that made the wraith scars on my hand ache. The word wall gave me _FO._ From some deep place in the back of my mind I knew, or rather my dragons knew, it means _frost_.

Avulstein was in rough shape. He still lay at the bottom of the hill bleeding, concussed, and disoriented. I walked to the clump of bushes where we had tied the horses and led them back, since there was no moving him just then. We had to take a few hours’ rest. Avulstein got a healing potion and a stamina restorative, but was still wobbly, which seemed to embarrass him. If I’m knocked on my ass it’s expected. When the big bad Nord gets knocked on _his_ ass it’s a whole other story. He wouldn’t hear it when I tried to console him by pointing out that we were just fighting a giant lizard with death breath. I miss Tony, I at least would have gotten a pity chuckle out of him. 

Del took the opportunity to lecture me on what “covering” someone means. She needed time to poison her arrow and if the dragon had decided to leave me to hide and turn to the only other target in the vicinity it might have bitten off her head before she could get the shot. She didn’t sound so much angry as disappointed.

“We have to work as a unit.” She said. “You may be the Dragonborn, but I have the precious commodity of experience. If you don’t _listen_ to me you’re going to get yourself or someone else killed.”

That stung. Not so much the “you’ll kill yourself” part, I’ve accepted that there’s a good chance I won’t live through this, but I can’t abide the thought of getting a companion killed.

“It is the destiny of the Dragonborn to save this world. I will gladly die to accomplish such a noble aim.” Avulstein spoke up defensively.

“As would I, however I’d like to live long enough to see the thing done.” Del countered.

Whoa. Heavy.

I didn’t know what to say. After a moment I just muttered that I would do better.

Delphine gave me an appraising look and asked how old I am. Its never come up before. When I told her she and Avulstein both looked at each other.

“You seem younger, like a sheltered child.” She said in her very matter of fact way.

I was sheltered, I conceded. Very much so. I had to stick with my backstory of farmer’s daughter turned war widow, but it tracks.

Del eased up a bit after that and we set off again. I changed into my wool dress since it’s the only intact piece of clothing I now own. Avulstein shoved a leather vest he never wears over my head and we had a good laugh over how ridiculous it looks. The stupid thing is so big on me that it almost reaches my knees, but he and Del both insist that I need the extra protection.

We traveled for a few quiet hours, but as soon as we turned west bulky shapes just out of sight started appearing. Spiders of various impossible proportions were protecting a nest around a small cave entrance in the side of a hill. Del insisted that I needed bow practice, so we stopped.

She and Avulstein leaned against a boulder while I clumsily knocked an arrow and after straining my arms for far too long sent it flying over the nest. Del said if my goal had been to murder the bushes on the other side it would have been a rousing success. She moved to my side and corrected my stance by kicking my feet apart. Steel toed boots exist in this world and they hurt.

The lesson lasted about an hour. My aim is so bad the spiders didn’t notice the arrows zipping past them until I finally managed to hit the biggest one, sitting in the shadow of the cave entrance like an eight-legged bouncer. It was a good hit, though. The arrow pierced one of its huge eyes and sent it skittering backwards into the cave. I managed to get one more hit into the abdomen of a drone with a body the size of a yoga ball before it got too close. Del finished it off easily. Avulstein hadn’t even bothered to move. He still needs to heal but won’t admit it.

Inspecting these things in the light of day, I don’t think they’re really spiders. They have eight legs and mandibles and too many goddamn eyes, sure but the body isn’t right. Under all the wiry hairs the skin is soft and moist to the touch. More like an amphibian that decided to sprout bore bristles than anything in the arachnid family. Evolution took a weird direction in this universe. Del hacked off a few legs and took the mandibles to milk later while Avulstein lazily cleared the few spiders too stupid not to retreat back to their lair with his good arm.

We’re camping by the river now. Del burned the hair off the spider legs and is currently roasting them over the fire. I am NOT eating that.


	28. Ivarstead

Morndas, 14th of Hearthfire 4E201

I spent longer than I should have last night trying to call up a healing spell for my leg scratches. Eventually managed it, but it left me dead-dog tired. Still have my healing scroll, but I’m saving it for an emergency. I need to get better at that spell. The way things are going I might find myself wounded without any resources or back-up. Delphine knows a few rudimentary spells, but not enough to heal a really bad injury. Avulstein knows exactly no magic at all and is very proud of the fact.

Breakfast was sad. Stale bread and apples.

Since bridges are great places to get ambushed, we forded the river this morning and followed a game trail up to the main road. Everything hurts. Bumping along in the saddle isn’t exactly great for my bruise collection, but it beats walking.

Delphine will not shut up about the Thalmor. I get that conspiracy theories about the Dominion are her obsession, but more than once I wanted to blurt out that they had nothing to do with dragons coming back now would you please stop?! Instead I concentrated on tuning her out. I started trying to remember all the lyrics to Roads Go Ever On, but my mind went blank after the first two stanzas. Tolkien fits the setting. It was a cool, sunny day. The trees are starting to turn gold on this side of the mountain.

A cart passed us at the crossroads driven by a scowling man with a deep, leathery tan. Axel’s southern counterpart. I didn’t catch his name. He had three passengers, a middle-aged couple, and a girl in her late teens. Since our horses took up pace behind the cart the girl started exuberantly blathering at us about how much there is to do and see in Riften. The couple, who had to be her parents, just sat there looking sour. It was clear they regretted bringing her. The moment I confirmed that we were also heading to Ivarstead the kid practically bounced off her seat in excitement and started asking rapid fire questions.

I tried to keep up, but after a while it was clear that the girl, Fastred, couldn’t hang on to a single train of thought for more than thirty seconds. Eventually Delphine said something about needing to hunt. I gave the cart passengers a polite goodbye before we all veered off into a small glade.

Delphine decided to take the opportunity to give me another lesson with the bow. By “lesson” I mean she made me sit in the hollow of a rotten tree stump for a couple hours waiting for game, while she and Avulstein trekked further afield with the horses. The first thing I saw was a fox, but I couldn’t bring myself to shoot at it. The morning wore on and I was starting to doze off when I heard bleating. A goat very slowly grazed its way toward my tree. It was too busy munching to notice me position the bow. I had the arrow ready, the string drawn and was just about to let it fly when a bear leapt from the brush. It startled me enough to let go of the arrow, which hit the bear square in the neck. It rounded on me with blood pouring down its chest. I had a choice to make and I had about five seconds to make it. Either try to get off another shot with the bow or use a thu’um. Knowing the full phrase by heart I unleashed _FUS RO DAH_ at the top of my lungs. The bear tumbled backwards, landed on the dead goat, and impaled himself on the horns. I finished it off with my ax, like Axel taught me.

I heard Avulstein crashing through the woods before I saw him emerge, wild-eyed with his war hammer ready. He swore loudly when he saw me.

“I told you we should not have left her alone.” He said to Delphine, who just smirked as she surveyed the bloody carnage.

“Why? She did fine. A little overachieving maybe, we don’t need this much meat, but still…”

I tried to tell Avulstein that I was okay, but it hurt to talk. Maybe I’m not Shouting using the correct technique, or maybe it’s just a side effect I’ll have to get used to. I’ll ask the Greybeards.

As we skinned and quartered my kills it occurred to me that I used two words of power that I haven’t found word walls for yet. I knew the words already, and my dragons knew their meanings, so I guess that’s all I needed. That’s interesting, if I don’t have to go tomb hopping for every single word that will save a buttload of time.

I was relieved to finally get to Ivarstead, for about five minutes. It has that “seen better days” feel of a dried-up old tourist town. Fastred’s fascination with Riften made total sense once I saw how tiny the hamlet really is. The inn and the mill are the only businesses, everyone else seems to make their living fishing and farming. We got rooms with no trouble and handed the bear and goat meat over to the cook, who took it all with a grunt and suggested that we take the bear pelt to the mill. Delphine excused herself to do just that, though I think she just wanted an excuse to go off on her own.

To my surprise there was a letter waiting for me, just delivered by the stage from Riften. The outside of the paper read “Vilemyr Inn, Ivarstead. E. Emard” in common Tamrielic. Once I cracked open the brownish wax seal, however I saw it was written in English and immediately knew who it was from.

_Ez, we are in some shit. Remember that old guy you wanted to warn down in the Ratway? (Yeah, I read the letter, you can yell at me later) He had a standing request to be informed about all correspondence, who was delivering for whom, who is asking about him, etc. The guild is also less than happy with me over my last job. The moment I showed my face at the Ragged Flagon Mercer asked to talk to me. We had a nice chat at knifepoint. All I told them is that someone claiming to be the Dragonborn hired me to deliver a letter. Didn’t drop your name, but it won’t matter if the Guild gets curious. Esbern is looking for you too. I have Aventus. Will leave Riften ASAP, drop him at Whiterun as we discussed, then go on this last assignment to shut Mercer up. Might not be there when you get back. This could also be a ploy by Mercer, so if the job goes south so will I. Catch you soon._

_-A.A._

I don’t like all the unanswered questions this raises, or the fact that his note looks like it was written in a rush on horseback. He has Aventus but didn’t elaborate on _how_ he got him out of Honor Hall. I’m going to hope really fucking hard that bribery worked.

Esbern is looking for me, but is he doing that from his hidey-hole, or did he take my warning to leave seriously? Damn. If Esbern is half as paranoid as he came off in the game, I’m not going to be able to throw him off with half-truths and a shrug. Even if he doesn’t track me down Delphine will hear about it if he’s out in the world again. Eventually they’ll find each other. Questions about how I knew where he was and that the Thalmor are after him would be inevitable either way.

And Tony going on one last job for the Guild smacks of “tying up loose ends.” He’s right to be cautious. Career criminals don’t fire problem employees, they make them disappear. I should have thought about all of this before I let him go. Just assumed he was too low-level for it to be a big deal.

STOP ASSUMING THINGS!

If something happens it’s on my head. I wish he had mentioned where he’s heading, or where he might go if it “goes south.” The fact that he’s being somewhat cagey, even though he knows only the two of us can read the note makes me think he doesn’t 100% trust me. Either that or he’s worried that the Guild will catch up to me before Esbern does and try to get the info out of me. Yeah that would suck. Now that I think about it, Mercer probably has no qualms about using torture techniques. Break your kneecaps, put a horse head in your bed mafia type shit maybe. Just because I never saw it in the game doesn’t mean it can’t happen.

Anyway, I took a little time sending short status updates to my principles. Then a reply to Tony c/o the Bannered Mare telling him to hand Aventus over to Fralia or Mette (who I informed as well). I will feel better knowing that the boy is in someone’s care and not just hanging out at an inn by himself for who knows how long.

I walked around town a bit, which took all of a half hour even meandering and stopping to talk to the gregarious elf at the mill. Like most small towns there are two kinds of people here, the ones who like the quiet and want to be left alone, and the ones who desperately want to leave, but can’t for one reason or another.

Fastred was already at the inn when I returned and pretty much invited herself to have supper with us. She kept making eyes at Avulstein. I’ve never seen him so uncomfortable. He kept shifting awkwardly and looking to Del and me for help as the girl talked non-stop and batted her lashes at him. That also earned him some glares from a snide looking young man with long red hair and a big bald dude nursing his ale in the opposite corner. Right, she has a couple romantic rivals already. Well, Avulstein is taken whether he’s admitted it to himself or not. I’m surprised she’s not into the elf who works for Temba. Crap, I just talked to him and can’t remember his name. But I like his attitude.

The locals have nothing better to do in the evenings than hang out at the inn and gossip, so the room was full of slightly sloshed people hungry for news. It fell to me to do most of the talking, though Delphine did chime in now and again. Mostly we talked about the dragon attacks. It didn’t take long for the crowd to launch into half a dozen lines of speculation, which gave me a break. My throat _still_ hurts. The general shift of the conversation went to the ancient dragon cults, which led to the local barrow and their resident ghost and I had to stop myself from smacking my forehead in frustration. The “ghost” at the barrow, I’d forgotten him too!

Logic sometimes escapes the Nordic point of view. It’s not that they’re stupid, but they have very specific blind spots. Anything to do with Talos for example, or magic, or the supernatural. Once I started asking questions about the mage who came to investigate the barrow, I could see the figurative lightbulbs over a few heads slowly flicker on. Kind of a crazy coincidence that the guy disappeared into the barrow and then the “haunting” activity ramped up right after, huh? Did anyone think to investigate? Maybe go find the poor bastard’s body? _Bling bing ding!_ I got to witness the birth of a search party/mob. That would have been fun, except the villagers insisted that I should spearhead since it was my idea. Delphine declined to go, but Avulstein was just as amped as the rest. I couldn’t talk them back down again, so we ended up marching to the tomb with five villagers including the inn keeper, armed with ale bottles and farming tools. Fastred kept bouncing on her toes and insisting that she get to go too. Her mother had to physically restrain her. Poor girl, she's got way too much energy for her own good. 

The whole expedition would have been a clusterfuck if Avulstein hadn’t come with. I have very little experience herding drunk people. Two villagers, Klimek, the big bald guy who was eying Fastred, and an off-duty guard named Dana, triggered booby traps, and had to go topside to get their wounds looked at. I told the others that I suspected that the ghost was just a man and not to kill him. So of course they drew their weapons the moment he popped out all glowy and crazed. It turned into a chaotic hallway brawl. I managed a weak ward to keep us from being shocked while Avulstein grabbed the elf by the hair and forced his hands behind his back so he couldn’t cast without hurting himself.

Wyndelius raved about being the guardian of the shroud, and that the treasure of the sapphire claw was rightfully his. Blah blah blah. The guy is clearly not all there anymore. I would be sympathetic if he hadn’t zapped us. Shock spells feel like a dispersed taser. Wilhelm the innkeeper caught the brunt of it before I could get the ward up and pissed himself. He punched the elf square in the jaw, and no one stopped him. 

We raided Wyndelius’ cozy little room, found his journal, and I let the others put the pieces together. The “treasure hunter” has been at this for over a year, pretending to be a specter and trying to figure out where the sapphire claw is to open the puzzle door.

Avulstein tied the elf’s hands with rope and forced him into a chair by the fire. Wilhelm went home to retrieve the claw. He said he keeps it under the bar, next to the moon sugar. While he was gone, I had a talk with our prisoner. I knew there’s a word wall at the end of the dungeon but couldn’t remember which one. So, I just bluntly told him I don’t care about treasure. He could keep it all as far as I was concerned. All I wanted was the knowledge in that final chamber. Everyone in the room, including the wild-eyed elf with his arms bound behind his back, stared at me like I was the crazy one. He agreed with a sort of suspicious sneer, saying that if I tried to cheat him out of what was his I’d never see daylight again. I smiled and pretended not to notice the very rough way Avulstein untied and stood him up once the innkeeper came back with the key.

Those puzzle doors are a bitch to move. The rings are heavy and sometimes need lubing to get into position. Beer works in a pinch. The villagers ran the moment draugr started jumping out of their coffins. The elf for all his mania knows how to put down undead. He used lightning while I blasted them with fire. Avulstein swept his war hammer through brittle iron carapaces. By the time we were done the air in the tomb was thick with ozone and ash.

It took a few hours to get to the end. The whole time Wyndelius stayed focused, never making conversation, never even giving in to a moment of fear or surprise when a new corpse rose. If it wasn’t fueled by pure, manic greed I would have been impressed.

Fighting in a dress with an oversized vest over it wasn’t exactly comfortable, especially when I had to switch to my ax when the zombies got too close. At one point, toward the end when I was getting damn tired, a draugr caught me with a blast of frost from behind, then swiped me. It didn’t get to my skin, but the ice stiffened the leather. The back of my vest sliced open under the tip of its sword and took a chunk of my hair with it. Avulstein pulled the corpse away and threw it against a wall, then Wyndelius blasted it with lightning until it stopped moving. I had to peel the rest of the vest off, it was useless.

By the time I could finally hear the word wall I was sore, dirty, and _done_. The elf looked like he was ready to pounce as I walked forward, then around the giant treasure chest to the wall on the other side of the room. _KYNE_ spoke from it, this time a warm buzz flowing into me. Each word has a feel, a personality. This one was cottony, reassuring, like pulling on an old sweatshirt. I let myself savor it, since nothing was trying to kill me just then.

I’m not sure what it looked or felt like to Avulstein or Wyndelius, but after a few minutes of standing there with my hands on the wall I felt something nudge my shoulder. The elf handed me some studded armor. It was old, but well preserved from its time in the chest. I thanked him. He just nodded. He looked almost bewildered, though I’m not sure why. Maybe it was the shock of finally getting what he wanted after so long, after surrendering his sanity to it even. Avulstein and I took the exit tunnel in the back of the chamber. Wyndelius didn’t follow.

It’s well passed midnight now and I need to sleep if there’s any way in hell we’re going to start up the mountain tomorrow.


	29. Oh, What Heights

Middas, 16th of Hearthfire 4E201

Delphine made a point of waking me super early as punishment for inciting a riot. The fact that it was an unintentional riot made no difference. The residents don’t seem bothered though, in fact Wilhelm said it was the most exciting thing to happen in Ivarstead in years. And now that they know the barrow isn’t haunted, they can start using it for burials again, assuming Wyndelius ever leaves. No one has seen him.

We were gifted with plenty of food for the hike up the mountain, in addition to the provisions for the Greybeards that Klimek asked me to take up. Avulstein insisted on taking on the extra weight. He’s quickly becoming part big brother, part nanny.

As we walked to the bridge over the river, I couldn’t help but feel just a little queasy looking up at the base of the steps. The trail is too narrow for horses, so Delphine will be taking them back to Riverwood with her. When I asked her what she planned to do after that she gave me a harsh look, like I was asking her to divulge top secret information out in the open. She handed me a satchel with the horn, a black book, and a thick letter inside.

“The Greybeards can be trusted up to a point.” She said in my ear, “But read the letter once you’re alone, then burn it.”

Then she handed me a pair of leather gloves and a thick bearskin coat. “From your kill. You’re not a Nord, you won’t enjoy climbing up there in naught but studded armor and leggings.”

She let me hug her, briefly, before she waved us off and led the horses down the path along the river. That’s the round-about way to get back to Riverwood. She either has other things to take care of on the way or doesn’t really plan on going back at all. And she clearly wanted us to know that, for reasons. Paranoid, circuitous reasons.

The coat is awesome. Whoever Del got to make it did a great job in such a short amount of time. There are arm holes, but no sleeves so I won’t be restricted if I need to use a bow. Once I rearranged my equipment, we started the long trek up the Steps.

Klimek said that it takes him about half a day to get up the mountain. It took us double that time, and it was mostly my fault. Even if I hadn’t been tired and sore it would have been slow going.

At one of the little shrines Avulstein stopped and asked me what was wrong.

Heights. I don’t do heights.

“I can’t carry that for you.” He said before continuing up the path. I think that’s the Nordic version of “suck it up.” 

The further we went the worse it got, until I was practically hugging the rockface and willing myself not to look over at the completely naked edge of the trail. Not a single guardrail in sight. But I did keep going, because Avulstein made it clear that he wasn’t going to baby me through a panic attack. I spent most of the journey mumbling the Bene Gesserit mantra to myself.

It wasn’t that cold when we started, but of course the further up the mountain we got the more the temperature dropped. I would have gladly traded the bow on my back for _sleeves_. The pilgrims disappeared completely at about the half-way point. After that we saw our first ice wraith, one of three. Damn slippery air eels are hard to see but blasting them with fire does the trick. Worse was the troll. We had to retreat backwards to keep enough distance between us and its massive claws. I almost stumbled right over the cliff edge. It finally fell, the once grey-white, three eyed gorilla monster collapsed in a mass of blackened flesh that slid down the icy trail making a low, sizzling sound until it settled. Even with the crosswind the smell of burnt hair wafted over us. I thought about kicking it over the side for good measure, but I wasn’t sure what it would have landed on and didn’t want to get that close anyway.

“People don’t eat troll, do they?” I asked Avulstein. It seemed like a legit question. There’s a stringent anti-waste attitude in Skyrim that I appreciate, but the thought of people hunting and eating those things makes my stomach twist.

He wrinkled his nose and simply answered “No.”

By the time we finally saw High Hrothgar my legs felt like toothpicks suspended in Jell-O. The view was spectacular, though. We took a few minutes to watch the sun disappear over the vast craggy forest landscape, washed over in autumn colors and purple shadows, before finally climbing the last dozen steps up to the doors of the temple.

A dark, smokey hall greeted us populated by a single figure. The old man looked utterly serene, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, wrapped in heavy robes with his hands folded in his lap. He had to have heard us walking in, his eyes opened, but he didn’t move.

I knew he wouldn’t say anything, so I just straightened my spine and told him that I was answering the Greybeard’s summons. His watery eyes slid from me to Avulstein and back. Then he whispered. A single word I didn’t know resonated off the walls and shook the iron braziers dotted around the room. Wow. I wonder what happens if a Greybeard sneezes?

It didn’t take long for the others to walk calmly in from different directions. They had the same reaction as the first one, looking to Avulstein and then me in mild confusion. Okay, I get it, I don’t look the part!

Arngeir introduced himself and we went through the basic thu’um tests. Receiving knowledge from one of them was different. Word walls feel like an echo made of bees. Dragon souls are a rush of energy that quickly settle into the background. Coming from a Greybeard the knowledge is _alive_ , like a growing, reaching thing. It’s more like communing with a tree than a man.

Avulstein was shown to a small alcove where he could camp out, while the Greybeards led me to their meeting room. They speak to each other using sign language. Arngeir acted as interpreter. I couldn’t really get a read on what they thought of my already having the horn of Jergen Wind-Caller. The meeting took hours. I stuck with total honesty. I mean I was sitting with a group of ancient pacifist hermits, who the hell are they going to tell? They didn’t seem particularly surprised to hear that people are being yanked through the space time continuum by Daedra. What did visibly upset Arngeir was that the Blades, while scattered and few in number, are still active. That gave me an in to mention that I know about Parthurnaax and so do the Blades. I also made it clear that I have no intention of harming him or their order.

Once the grueling debrief was over Arngeir said that they needed to deliberate amongst themselves and with Parthurnaax. I was shown to a narrow room furnished with a dusty mattress and a tiny dresser with an earthenware water pitcher on top. I’ve seen recreations of monastic cells that were cozier. It was a relief to get out of my armor, it pinches in all the wrong places. Avulstein loaned me a tent of a shirt I can wear with my leggings, so I don’t scandalize the geezers.

I was just tying the hem of the shirt into a knot at my waist when I heard what sounded like an angry rockslide. Avulstein and I stumbled out the back doors to find the Greybeards standing in the moonlight, speaking in resonating Dovahzul at the Throat of the World. Parthurnaax’s replies shook boulders the size of my head loose along with drifts of snow that rolled downward, then parted like the Red Sea at the gate before it could reach the patio. I only recognized two words: dovahkiin and Alduin.

And because it was cold as ever-loving fuck I ducked back inside in search of food. Me and Avulstein picked through our provisions, trying very hard to ignore how the building shook around us. My companion’s piety is cranked up to eleven. When the Greybeards finally finished their conversation Avulstein stood with his head bowed in reverence until they filed passed him. The old priests formed a phalanx around me and Arngeir informed me that my training starts tomorrow. That was it, they shuffled off to bed in complete silence. I guess we’ll get to the specifics in the morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have work things coming up, so this may be the last update for a little while. I'll do my best to stay on a semi-regular schedule when I can and happy Nanowrimo for those of you participating!


	30. Padawan

High Hrothgar

Turdas, 17th of Hearthfire 4E201

Opened Delphine’s letter and found the bulk of it to be a smaller, cruder copy of her dragon burial mound map. Between that and the shitty one I bought in Whiterun I’ll hopefully be able to figure out how to get places if I’m ever on my own. The letter read as follows:

_The Greybeards will try to convince you that you should stand by and do nothing while the world burns. Do not listen! This isn’t about politics or philosophy, it’s about the fate of all of Tamriel! I have seen what you can do and do not doubt any longer than you are Dragonborn. However, whatever you are hiding is going to come out sooner or later. Learn what you need to be an effective fighter, then come find me. I will not be idle while you are on that mountain. I have included a comprehensive history, written by a good friend. Please read it. You know where to go if you need to contact me._

_I’ll be in touch._

The book she gave me is a history on the Blades, written by Esbern of course. Flipping through it I’ve gleaned that he did start with pre-Dragon war history, so that will be very useful if only to keep current events in context. I doubt the stuff about the Blades will be completely impartial, though.

I feel like I’m being courted by cultists at every turn. I don’t want to refuse help from anyone, but I know what the Blades will ask of me in the end. And I’m not sure where the moral high ground is here. Can I ghost them after Delphine unquestionably saved my ass? Or do I take their help and then summarily dismiss them when they demand that I execute Paarthurnax? At best that would alienate Del and Esbern, at worst make them enemies, which I’d like to avoid. It’s too late to remain completely unaffiliated. Del seems to think that I will come to her for help sooner or later. I might have to accept that as an inevitability. Delphine isn’t a bad person, either. She’s a badass with conviction and I respect that, but she thinks in absolutes. I don’t have that luxury.

Spoke with Arngeir about training this morning. They will be teaching me “what they can.” The way he said it makes me think that they’ve decided there are certain words that they know, but don’t plan on teaching me for some reason. Maybe it’s the pacifist angle, Arngeir kept skirting the subject.

The Greybeards are sure that the weather won’t get bad for a few more weeks. That was very welcome news. I don’t relish the thought of being stuck up here all winter. I can understand why there isn’t a line up of people begging to be apprentices, as respected as Greybeards are they do _not_ have it easy. They’ve gotten used to the altitude of course, not that this is an Everest-scale mountain, but they rely on the provisions from Ivarstead to survive. Klimek delivers dry grain or beans, dried fish, and strips of elk jerky about once a month until the snows set in. That means that the monks must ration everything they have left for at least four months. I’m still not clear on where they get fuel for the braziers, but I suspect they use chips, like the residents of Winterhold.

I spent most of the day listening to lectures on The Way of the Voice, the history and philosophy of the Greybeards, and doing breathing exercises, which Arngeir said will help with the throat discomfort. He also mentioned that I don’t need to scream the words at the top of my lungs. Like magic, the force of the thu’um doesn’t come from physical exertion, but _intent_ and the depth of your understanding. He didn’t laugh when he explained that, but there was hint of mirth at the corners of his eyes, like the look you give a toddler who frantically runs through the house only to smack right into a table leg.

_That hurt, huh? You’re not going to do that again, are ya?_

Shake it off. Inhale, hold, exhale, hold. It’s not that different from the exercises my RN taught me for migraines.

I’m not going to make Avulstein hang out here for weeks watching me breath in and out. While anyone can learn shouts Arngeir made it clear that for a normal person it takes months, if not years to learn a single word of power. He mentioned that their last apprentice, Ulfric _Dumbass_ Stormcloak, had mastered the three words of Unrelenting Force in just ten years! What a remarkable feat, she thought with all the sarcasm.

I am not Elsa; I am _never_ letting it go.

Avulstein will rest today (I had to insist on that) then head back to Whiterun tomorrow. I’m going to send a few letters with him and ask him to watch out for Aventus. I had left it open as to whether Fralia or Mette should take responsibility for the boy, whoever wants to I suppose. Mette already has one kid still at home, but Fralia is a lot older and may not feel like trying to keep up with a ten-year-old. I’ll just have to stop worrying about it for right now and concentrate on the task at hand.

Goal 1: Learn as much as possible before the first snow, then get the hell off this mountain.

Goal 2: Convince the Greybeards to let me speak to Parthurnaax before I go.

Fredas, 18th of Hearthfire 4E201

Saw Avulstein off. It was a bit more emotional than I was expecting. He bowed to each of the Greybeards on his way out but gave me a big ol’ bear hug out front where they couldn’t see. I told him to be sure to do the same with Mette when he sees her, and he actually blushed! So cute. All the feels. Now back to work.

Morndas, 21st of Hearthfire 4E201

I think Arngeir was holding back until Avulstein left. After that he quickly switched from breathing and diaphragm stretches to expounding on the words I already know. We started on rudimentary language lessons. He wants me to learn to speak Dovahzul conversationally, reason being, in his words: “As Dragonborn you need not ruminate on a single word as we do and will have more cause to commune with dragon kind than any other mortal of this Age. To speak fluently and with confidence will only strengthen your position.”

So here I am learning yet another new language. There’s a disconnect between the understanding the Greybeards can give me for a word of power, and everyday words that the ancient dragon priests used to communicate with their overlords. It’s hard to explain. One is intuitive, I don’t just know what a word of power means, but everything behind it, if that makes sense. Whereas figuring out how to string a sentence together is more or less like any other language. Right now I’m learning the vowels.

I’m also struggling with pronunciation. Dovahzul sounds very deep and guttural and intimidating coming from a dragon. _I_ on the other hand sound like a prepubescent Klingon.

Loredas, 26th of Hearthfire 4E201

Okay now I think I get why Arngeir said they would only be teaching me _what they can_. While the Dovahzul lessons have been going on every new word of power I’ve learned has been a non-lethal one. 

WULD NAH KEST Whirlwind Fury Tempest

LAAS YA NIR Life Seek Hunt

FEIM ZI GRON Fade Spirit Bind

LOK VAH KOOR Sky Spring Summer

I wonder if I could create my own thu’ums using different word combos? Dragonrend was created by people, not dragons, so why not? The only thing holding me back from experimenting right now is the Greybeard’s disapproval.

Philosophically I understand where they're coming from. The Greybeards have dedicated their lives to preserving The Way of the Voice and keeping it from being misused. Arngeir hasn’t come out and said it, but I think they’re more than embarrassed by what Ulfric did with their teachings, it _hurt_ them. The fact that they’re going slow with me, slow for a Dragonborn anyway, is understandable. I could talk til I’m blue about how I don’t want personal power. Talk is cheap. I will have to show them that I’m better than that. Hey, there’s the silver lining I was looking for! Ulfric might be an asshat, but he’s given me a great model _not_ to follow.

Morndas, 28th of Hearthfire 4E201

Eating like a monk is making me cranky. I know the old adage is “eat to live, don’t live to eat” but they barely eat enough to stay alive! Breakfast is usually a watery corn mush, they don’t eat lunch at all, and then we each get a strip of dried meat to gnaw on in the evening. I still have some of my own rations, but most of the fresh stuff is gone. There is a single, wrinkly leek and a potato in the bottom of the sack. How do they not all have scurvy?? I did notice that all the Greybeards chug a lot of liquids. One morning I even caught Einarth pouring what looked like a healing draught into his tea. That would explain how they’re still so spry after all this time. Arngeir must be pushing ninety and he’s the _youngest_.

Lessons continue, I’m finding it hard to gauge how well I’m doing. Got super antsy today and went to play outside for a while. There hasn’t been a fresh snowfall yet, but there’s always a bit that lingers on the mountain, so I amused myself with making snowmen. I gave them names like Ulfric, Judith, and Aia before obliterating them with thu’ums. Arngeir was right, the breathing does help, though after the third or fourth _FUS_ my throat started to feel a little raw again.

I was just scraping together another pile of snow when the mountain shook. It had to have been Parthurnaax. Arngeir confirmed for me that it was a summons. Tomorrow I’ll have to use clear skies to get up to the peak. This was one of my major goals, but I’m still nervous. I feel like I’m going in for a job interview. What if he doesn’t like me? What if he takes one look at me and says there’s been a horrible, cosmic mistake? I guess I always have the option to just go back to Solitude; after all of this though, I don’t think I would want to. If I wasn’t Dragonborn I still have my people to find, adoptees to look after; even if part of me would like to abandon those responsibilities I know I wouldn’t.

Tomorrow should be _very_ interesting.


	31. Paarthurnax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dovahzul translations at the end.

High Hrothgar

Middas, 30th of Hearthfire 4E201

Using clear skies makes you feel like Storm! Clouds part and the air goes still for a while, at least in the pocket of atmosphere around you. The novelty almost made up for the abject terror of climbing even higher up this damn mountain with nothing but a bit of rock to hold onto. 

Paarthurnax was waiting at the Throat, perched on the word wall. The sun bounced off the snow creating a soft glow on his scales, highlighting their olive tinge and dozens of deep, grey-green battle scars. His age is obvious even from a distance. Wings frayed and right foreclaw bent, like it had been broken and didn’t set exactly straight. Most of the spikes along his neck and head are fractured.

Without a doubt he’s the oldest dragon I’ve seen so far, but then he never “died” and resurrected. I haven’t gotten a good look at Alduin, so I can’t compare them.

He also seems slightly larger than the other dragons I _have_ seen. Maybe it was his stillness, the calm way he sat on the wall watching me trudge through the snow with my hands shoved in my armpits.

I decided to take a chance and greet him as a dragon would, with fire.

It was a spur of the moment decision. I should have given it more thought on the hike up the mountain.

Once my thu’um puffed out Paarthurnax lowered his head, turning one misty amber eye so he could get a good look at me.

“Greetings, _wunduniik_.” He said finally, “By tradition the elder speaks first. Perhaps you did not know this.”

His voice filled the open space between us with warm weight. I could tell by his tone that he didn’t believe that I didn’t know about the greeting. I remembered the moment he said something and felt my face heat. Which isn’t fair. Dragons don’t get flushed or have facial tics, as far as I can tell anyway. They don’t even speak with their lips, which shouldn’t be phonetically possible. Paarthurnax barely moved his jaw, but the words still came out perfectly annunciated. Dragons either have incredibly complex vocal cords, or there’s a magical assist happening in there that I can’t see. The curious and admittedly dumb part of my brain wanted to stare down his gullet and ask heaps of inappropriate questions.

He made a sound half-way between a hum and a purr as he lowered himself off the wall like a cat, carefully positioning his claws away from me and keeping his tail high.

I walked over to the wall and let _FEIM_ flow into me while Paarthurnax settled in the snow, acting as a wind break so I was protected from the open side. Or trapped, though I never got that feeling. Had I tried to walk away he would have politely moved.

He looked relaxed as he tilted his head slightly and stated, “You come to my _strunmah_ expecting judgment.”

“How do you know?”

“I have been listening. The Greybeards, _bahlaan fahdonne_ , tell me much. Too often those who come seeking tutelage do so for the sake of _moro_ , glory, rather than enlightenment. They tell me you are a patient student, despite your foreknowledge. It is rare that one of the _dovah sos_ should show humility in this way.”

“Did they tell you where I come from? How I got here?”

“Yes. It matters little.”

“It matters to me. I want to know how I’m here and if there’s a way back. For all of us.”

He made another humming noise deep in his throat before answering. “When the ancient heroes defeated Alduin their _krongrah_ was incomplete. They merely crippled Alduin. The Kelle, Elder Scrolls, have often been used for prophecy, but this is only a small part of their power. _Zo faas suleyk. Tiid krent_. Time was…shattered here because of what the ancient Nords did to Alduin. Those wounds continue to bleed. Unchecked what started as a small puncture may grow to a great tear. Even I, _wuth_ as I am cannot know the true extent of the damage. I _do_ know that Alduin and _dovahkiin_ return together.”

“What about Sheogorath? He was there, I literally landed at his feet. It was his artifact that brought me here, not an Elder Scroll.”

“Was it?” Paarthurnax sounded almost amused at that. “The Daedra are not above taking credit for events not of their own doing, none the least the Prince of Madness. Whether for pleasure or gain, it matters not. The role of _dovahkiin_ falls only to the willing.”

“Are you saying I _chose_ this?” I asked more petulantly than I meant to. “Even if that was true, how does that fit into the whole “chosen one” thing? It’s a contradiction! I’m not even from this universe, it doesn’t make any sense to me.”

His tail flicked languidly as he took deep, even breaths of cold air. It reminded me a bit of a mountain lion laying in the sun, conserving energy.

“ _Drem_. Patience. I do not pretend to understand the workings of _qostiid_ , prophecy, nor the inner machinations of this or any other _universe_ , as you say. In my experience, however, as with most things, man and mer misinterpret the word of the ancients. _Blood_ to a _dov_ does not carry the same meaning as it does to the _joorre_. Your very existence here and now on my _strunmah_ speaks to your destiny. Had you refused it, as others have, we would not be holding _tinvaak_. Who then would I be speaking to? I cannot say.”

“So, you don’t know if I can go back where I came from?”

“To travel between worlds is no small feat. To travel in Time even more so. With a Kelle it may be possible to reenter the wound from which you emerged, but _when_ is difficult to decern.

It is well that your mind dwells on the fate of others. Temper that instinct with caution.”

We continued for some time like this, I’ll save my digits and stop here. I’m pretty proud of myself for remembering this much of the conversation.

I’ve been so fixated on that mirror in Solitude and Sheogorath’s part in my arrival it never occurred to me that there might be a completely unrelated cause for my being here. Paarthurnax’s theory certainly makes Tony’s entrance via cave make more sense. It also complicates everything. I liked it better when there was one way in and one way out in my head. Now there’s wibbly-wobbly time stuff in the equation and my brain hurts.

Am I living in an alternate universe, or a constructed one? Is this the Matrix?

And assuming that I believe in prophecy, which I don’t necessarily at all, I still don’t know why it’s me. Paarthurnax said it was a choice. I can’t wrap my head around that. I didn’t choose to be here. I didn’t walk out of my shit office job thinking “You know what would really cheer me up right now? An existential crisis!”

Sure, I’ve accepted the whole saving the world obligation, but that’s only because I’m in it now. If Alduin wins, there’s nothing to stop him from slurping my soul along with all the other poor bastards too powerless to stop him.

I needed to get my hands on an Elder Scroll any way, now I just have a little more incentive to get on with it. Should probably speak with a moth priest before trying to do any portal opening, but I’ll deal with that after Alduin is out of the way.

I enjoyed chatting with Paarthurnax. We discussed Alduin and the Blades, the old heroes, and the old gods. He talks about the divines like you would family members you haven’t seen in a long time.

When he described the past dragonborns and the great warriors they all were I couldn’t help but bring up how much I’m _not_ like them.

“You are as you were meant to be.” He said. “ _Dov wahlaan fah rel_. You feel it in yourself do you not? That your nature is also merciful bodes well. I am glad of it, for all things must be kept in balance.”

That made me feel better. I don’t necessarily believe it, but hey I can take a compliment. Sometimes.

We talked til sundown, when I had to leave so I wouldn’t be stumbling down icy trails in the dark. He did impart as much knowledge as I could take before I left, which left me lightheaded and giddy. There was a sense of kinship that I haven’t gotten from the others. Granted, that makes sense since the other dragons I’ve encountered I soul-swallowed like a selective succubus. When I asked if he was angry at all about his brethren I noticed his shoulders slump. Paarthurnax spent years trying to convince the others that Alduin was leading them down the wrong path. They didn’t listen, so he’s washed his hands of them, so to speak. It still makes him sad.

The Blades are wrong about him. If I had any teensy tiny doubts before they’re gone now. The way he talks about power and domination isn’t that different from how a recovering addict talks about their drug of choice.

“No day goes by where I am not tempted to return to my inborn nature.” He said.

He doesn’t deserve to die; he deserves a cake and one of those little gold abstinence coins. Not that he would know what any of that means. I just wish there was a way to explain it to the Blades, in a way that makes sense to them.

You don’t murder someone because they _might_ fall off the wagon, you help them stay on the wagon.

It was dark by the time I got back to High Hrothgar, saturated with knowledge, and chomping at the bit to get warm at last. When I woke this morning Borri pointed to the back doors. A steady dusting of powdery snow covered the porch, the gate, and continued to fall all day. I need to get back to the ground, soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters and some dialogue belongs to Bethesda, don't at me. I rearranged some of the dialogue trees to make it more concise for this format. I'm pretty sure my Dovahzul translations are correct, but let me know if I missed something. 
> 
> Wunduniik = Traveler  
> Strunmah = Mountain  
> Dovah sos = Dragon blood  
> Bahlaan fahdonne = Worthy friends  
> Moro = Glory  
> Krongrah = Victory  
> Qostiid = Prophecy  
> Dovahkiin = Dragonborn  
> Tinvaak = Talk/Speech  
> Zo faas suleyk = Fearful power  
> Wuth = Old  
> Joorre = Mortal  
> Dov wahlaan fah rel = We (dragons) were made to dominate


	32. Bad Directions

Ivarstead

Sundas, 4th of Frost Fall 4E201

I could’ve kissed the ground when I stepped back on to good ol’ terra firma. The climb down was a hell of a lot scarier than the way up. It was dry and I had Avulstein with me before. This time the steps were covered with several inches of snow in places and just when I thought the sunshine would last more clouds rolled in to spit sleet and pellets of hale at me. I used Clear Skies a few times out of sheer frustration. That shout may prove handier than I initially thought.

My fear of falling kept me invisible most of the journey, I think. A pair of pilgrims at the second marker ignored me completely as I passed. I was a little insulted until I noticed that I couldn’t see my own waving hand. I really need to learn better control. A major side effect of holding a spell that long, even if I’m not casting intentionally, is the energy drain. Once the adrenaline rush dissipated, I was so shaky and exhausted I barely made it to the inn.

Something I knew, but never personally experienced, is when you’ve gained notoriety in a small town people want to feed you. I hadn’t taken three steps into the building before the girl behind the counter held up a hand and told me to sit. Fish stew never tasted so good. I didn’t even mind the heads. The locals wanted to know all about what the Greybeards are up to. I stuck to broad strokes, nothing they don’t already know, except that they could really use some provisions with vitamin C and if anyone wants to donate chamber pots or cutlery that aren’t a hundred years old that would be swell. I shutter to think how much frozen fecal matter is sitting on top of that mountain.

I was given the most bijou room in the place, but it was half price. Compared to the tiny cell the Greybeards gave me it’s a six by four palace. I’m almost out of money again. Thought about going back down into the barrow to see if Wyndelius left anything valuable behind, but after finally getting around to looking at the letters waiting for me, I decided it wasn’t worth the extra time.

Mette wrote that Aventus arrived safe and chose to stay with her. Tony took off the next day on his job, promising to get back as soon as he can. I don’t think he mentioned to her, or probably anyone, what the nature of the job is though.

Idgrod sent a vampire update. I had no idea that Falion and Isran of Dawnguard fame are brothers! They’ve routed the coven near Morthal and another small pocket of bloodsuckers further north, currently looking for more. Falion and Isran have diametric ideas about what to do with vamps; Falion wants to cure them, Isran wants to slaughter them. Idgrod spent the last few months negotiating a compromise. The agreement, at least right now, is to give fledglings the option to surrender and be cured before the carnage commences. Somehow, I don’t see them getting a lot of takers, but I’ve been wrong before. Maybe the young ones who still remember their mortality will see the downsides to being a parasitic nightmare creature and take the out. Many won’t. At least they’ll have a choice.

Viarmo’s letter arrived by courier. The kid couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen, grubby even after his respite while waiting for me, and _wired_. When I asked how he knew where I was, he just smiled and said, “trade secrets, ma’am.” Yeah, that’s not creepy at all.

_Esme,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I received your previous message along with your rather truncated rough draft a few weeks ago. The appeal has been re-written as you asked and submitted to the jarl’s steward, Falk Firebeard. This morning I received a cordial but discouraging reply from the Blue Palace stating that upon review General Tulius (more accurately his secretary I should think) denied the appeal._

_I am truly sorry. From the reputation of Eorlund Gray-Mane and what you have told us I understand why you wish to help._

_I took the liberty of making inquiries through a few acquaintances at Castle Dour. Officially Thorald Gray-Mane is being held on suspicion of sedition against the Empire. True or not calling him a Stormcloak spy gives the Thalmor free reign to keep him almost indefinitely, assuming he still lives._

_A personal appeal directly to the jarl might yield better results than another written request, if you intend to pursue the matter further. Elisef is known to be compassionate. If you ever plan on returning to us I might be able to arrange a brief audience. Several members of court are avid patrons of the arts._

_Please let me know that you are safe. Rumors of a dragon attack outside Whiterun have been all anyone will talk about recently. I am not certain how literally these reports should be taken; however, I will not pretend that they are not alarming._

_Again, I am very sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I plan to send this letter by courier. Please send your reply as soon as you receive it, I have paid for the return service._

_Yours,_

_Viarmo_

He must be worried. I can’t think of any other reason why he would blow a hundred septims, plus however much it costs for the reply too, just to tell me that Thorald’s appeal was denied.

After reading the last sentence I looked up and sure enough the kid was still standing there, shifting from foot to foot impatiently. I quickly scrawled a reply, just letting Viarmo know that there was an attack, but I’m fine and returning now. I don’t want to address the dragonborn thing, or the trip to High Hrothgar, or any of it, not in the form of a letter. I just can’t make it work on paper without sounding like a raging narcissist or a lunatic. Or both.

The courier snatched the letter out of my hand the moment I was done and took off like a coked-out squirrel, leaving me to contemplate my next move.

There’s no getting back to Whiterun without going around the Throat of the World. I studied my maps for a while trying to figure out if going around the east or west side of the mountain would be faster. Even after asking several people around town there’s no consensus. Neither way is exactly safe. The eastern route looks shorter on the map, but bandits are more prevalent and it’s much easier to get lost on the many game trails and side roads according to the local hunters. Going south then swinging around the west side cuts through the foot of the mountains and Helgen. It’s a longer way around, but an easier road to follow.

Dana, the guard who went with us to the barrow and ended up with a broken foot, suggested that if I’m going alone the safer way is the one with fewer people. She said while bandits do sometimes set up ambushes where the west road turns uphill and bottlenecks, the wet weather and infrequent travelers makes it less likely this time of year. Before Helgen was destroyed a stage ran between the two towns, but the driver was killed in the attack and no one sees any reason to take up the route. I’ll have to go on foot.

Maybe I shouldn’t be taking advice from someone using her cast as a beer cozy, but no one else could give me a better reason, so west it is!

It’s been raining off and on for the past two days. I plan to leave tomorrow whether it clears up or not, I can’t keep freeloading on these people.

Riverwood

Tirdas, 6th of Frost Fall 4E201

Traveling alone seemed like a good idea when I was warm and safe indoors. My confidence evaporated with the first bear sighting and it only got worse from there. The coat Del gifted me has a hood and is somewhat water resistant, as are the leather leggings Fralia gave me, but it doesn’t keep the rain from running down my arms or into my boots. I’m going to be very annoyed with myself if I come down with pneumonia.

Once I got to the foothills the road turned mostly to cobbled stone and gravel. Pro: there wasn’t a lot of mud to slog through. Con: it’s very hilly and wet rock is slippery. I could have used Clear Skies but decided against it. If there’s one thing I learned from my time with the Greybeards, it’s that Shouts are loud, and dragons have exceptional hearing. The whole point of going the west route was to be as inconspicuous as possible, like Frodo and Sam sneaking into Mordor.

I miss Avulstein. For all their hospitality not one person in Ivarstead volunteered to go with me. I guess I can’t blame them. All the farmers are finishing with their harvesting and everyone else is busy with winter prep. Even Fastred was too busy to try to invite herself along.

After about an hour I made it to a flat area at the top of the first big hill where the road took a sharp turn. Great place for an ambush. There was a shallow rock outcrop that provided a small amount of shelter and a narrow view up the next hill. I hunkered down, squinting through the rain, and listened for a while. I thought I heard shuffling noises, maybe footsteps. After several minutes nothing appeared coming or going. Eventually my teeth chattering became too violent to ignore and I was forced to continue walking.

Try as I might I couldn’t remember the area from any of my playthroughs. It’s weird and terrifying, not knowing exactly where I am or what’s around the next bend. I’ve gotten spoiled the last few months. The further up into the crags I ventured the more the rain turned to sluggish snowflakes that clung to my hood and melted down my front. And the noises continued. At first I told myself that it was goats or tree limbs creaking, something natural and harmless. It was nothing distinct, just the odd shuffling sound, like someone losing their footing in the accumulating slush. I’d turn, listen, see and hear nothing else and keep going. This went on for a while. It did occur to me that I might be coming down with hypothermia. Stage two or three comes with cognitive problems, but I was still shivering, so I took that as a good sign. I dismissed the possibility that someone casting invisibility might be following me after a few hours. It would take an exceptional mage to hold it that long. Exceptional mages would, I rationalized, have better things to do than follow me all day.

Still, my hackles were up before I got anywhere near Helgen. Cresting what I hoped was the final hill I noticed a cart full of garbage and broken clay jugs on the side of the road. I picked up the pace, not wanting to run into miners or anyone less savory. I went too fast, tripped, and fell forward. Hard.

I was just pulling myself up, cursing and bleeding from a cut on my chin, when I heard a loud bark behind me. A large, grey wolfhound stood in the middle of the road, looking at me intently. With the cart and what I thought might be a cave entrance nearby I took that as a sign of habitation and continued cautiously hauling ass. The dog followed. I didn’t think much of it, he wasn’t being aggressive. I thought he’d give up and go home eventually.

The snow stopped shortly after that and the road became a little more level. The outline of a town in the distance just came into view, with a blackened tower and chunky wooden walls, when I heard a voice behind me.

_“You know someone’s following you, right?”_

I whirled around so fast that I almost tripped over myself again. Because holy fucking fuck the dog spoke. In English. With a distinct Brooklyn accent.

“Barbas?” I squeaked.

_“Yeah! Great, you know already, that will make this easier. I tried talking to the other one, but he became a little hysterical and ran off.”_

“The other one?”

_“One of the other candidates. You all have a distinct scent, which is good, it makes you easier to find! This was a happy accident, though. I was visiting my master’s shrine, trying to convince him to take me back. It didn’t go well. Anyway, you should know that there’s an elf following you. He’s in the bushes over there.”_

My eyes darted to a clump of spikey shrubs just off the path, but I couldn’t see anything.

 _“You know what, you look like you could use a little help. Allow me!”_ The dog’s voice rang in my head.

Barbas turned and plunged into the brush. A second later a foot materialized in his mouth, followed by the rest of a howling Dunmer struggling to stay vertical while the dog dragged him out of hiding. The oiled leather pack strapped to his shoulders threw him off balance and he fell on it with a painful crunch. 

It was Wyndelius. Because of course it was.

 _“He smells like a thief!”_ Barbas said excitedly. _“Want me to rip his throat out?”_

“No!” I balked.

Barbas let go of the elf just in time to avoid a vicious kick. With Wyndelius struggling to roll off the pack on his back he looked like an angry turtle, one that had been chugging invisibility potions all day long judging by the dozens of tiny vials that tumbled out of his pockets.

I pulled out my axe just in case. “Why have you been following me?” I demanded, putting a little thu’um at the end for emphasis.

He cringed and rolled onto his side before scrambling back to his feet. His hands trembled, I noticed, but didn’t reach for the knife at his belt. Blood red eyes narrowed on mine and for a few seconds we just watched each other’s breath puff out in clouds.

“You shouldn’t be traveling alone.” the elf mumbled finally. “I waited. You shouldn’t be here. Alone.”

I glanced at Barbas, who just tilted his head. Helpful.

“Why. Are. You. Following me?” I overenunciated. “Give me an actual reason.”

Wyndelius hunched his overburdened shoulders and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“You made this possible.” He said, gesturing at his pack. “I had forgotten. Lost track of time and…everything. I need…I need purpose. They took my home. You can give me purpose, but only if you stay alive.”

There commenced a war in my head for a few seconds. Sort of a devil on one shoulder, angel on the other argument. Devil me was quick to point out that this guy is a few cans short of a six pack and might decide to flay me in the night and wear my skin as a stylish wrap.

Angel me suggested that everyone should be innocent until proven guilty. Sure, he had gone crazy being alone so long and that’s why he attacked us at the barrow, but he was calm now and asking for help. Rejecting that plea would go against every value I was ever taught.

On the other hand listening to my conscience got me forcibly hauled out of Solitude and started this whole messy chain of events.

I turned to the dog again. “What do you think?” I asked him in Tamrielian.

_“Hey, you know more than I do. You two sound like you got history. Go with your gut.”_

Okay so maybe trusting either of them is stupid. Consciously I _know_ Barbas is a Daedric construct, or something along those lines, and therefore way more dangerous than he looks. But dammit I can’t bring myself to think of him that way. Barbas was always my favorite tank. It’s also very comforting to hear a voice that could be from home, even if it’s only in my head.

I turned back to Wyndelius and asked “Do you even care where I’m going? Or why? I know you were alone for a long time, but don’t you have a family to go back to?”

“No.” he said flatly.

“No to what part of that?”

“All of it.”

Ouch. That was too sad. I may end up regretting it, but I decided to give them both the benefit of the doubt. I figured Barbas could have mauled me on the road and if Wyndelius had been tracking me from the start he had dozens of opportunities to sneak up and shiv me. Clean kill, no witnesses, Morag Tong style.

I agreed to let him come with me as far as Whiterun, we’ll see how things go from there. My only stipulation was that he hand over the rest of his invisibility potions. He gave me a look like I’d just asked him to surrender his balls, but begrudgingly yanked four still stoppered vials the size of my thumb from inside his jerkin and handed them over.

With him being somewhat cryptic getting a bead on what he’s really after is going to be tricky. He did admit that after we cleared the barrow the local guards made a point of letting him know that he wasn’t welcome in Ivarstead. Dana getting injured probably had something to do with that. It was also just an embarrassing situation all around. The townsfolk were tricked into thinking the place was really haunted and Wyndelius spent the better part of a year looking for a claw key that was literally sitting a hundred yards away next to Wilhelm’s good whiskey.

If he feels ashamed about any of it he’s not letting on. In fact, he seems sort of dazed most of the time, like he’s half here, half somewhere else. I don’t think he was being hyperbolic when he said he needs purpose. He just lost the thing his whole life has been about for who knows how long. Coming to terms with that can't be easy.

We made it to Helgen at dusk. I thought there would be bandits in the ruins, maybe a few scavenging wolves. I wasn’t prepared for utter desolation. The walls I saw in the distance proved to be charred, skeletal planks of wood sticking up at odd angles and collapsing in on themselves in places. The only building that was spared from the fire, somewhat, was the keep.

We spent a good hour picking through the rubble, but there wasn’t much of anything left and no sign that anyone had moved in yet. While we didn’t see any corpses out in the open, I’m sure there are still bodies stuck under the heaviest debris where no one could get to them. The smell was sickening, like rancid barbeque and burnt hair. It started to sleet again, and I was still somewhat water-logged and very tired of being cold, so we locked ourselves in the keep. I would have preferred to sleep anywhere else, but it was the most fortified area and there was no way we could get to Riverwood before dark. 

I’ll give Wyndelius brownie points for being courteous. He climbed up what was left of the stairs and looked out the giant hole in the wall while I stripped and hung up my things. Barbas on the other hand sat on his haunches and had to be told, less than gently, to stop staring. Thankfully, the shirt Avulstein lent me was still shoved down into my pack and still dry or I have no doubt that I would have gotten sick.

It was a quiet, tense evening. I wanted to ask Barbas about what he had said before about the other “candidate” but having a one-sided conversation with a dog in front of a mentally unstable elf seemed like a bad idea.

Instead I did my best to make small talk, getting only occasional monosyllabic responses until I gave up.

Wyndelius didn’t have a bed roll. His pack was stuffed with all sorts of things pilfered from the barrow, but no personal items, food, anything like that. He insisted that he was fine sleeping on the floor, but we all still woke up in a pile this morning. Barbas and I formed a T on my bedroll with my head on his belly and I found Wyndelius hugging my legs with his feet in the dog’s face. I can’t remember ever being so stiff. Nothing inappropriate just…awkward.

We got to Riverwood today around mid-day. Del is gone, no one seems to know where. I can’t afford a room, so once Wyndelius finishes at the Trader we’ll keep going. Should get to Whiterun sometime this afternoon.


	33. Never Plot on an Empty Stomach

Whiterun

Turdas, 8th of Frost Fall 4E201

Avulstein disappeared two days ago. Everyone is freaking out. It’s my fault, I should have listened to Fralia and made him stay home out of sight.

I was so happy to be back. As we passed the Whiterun stables, I noticed Ferris standing in the yard munching on soggy feed and was looking forward to seeing Axel.

For the first time I was able to stop at the Khajit camp by the outer gates. Wyndelius still had a few things from the barrow to trade, I just stood back and ogled the weapons wracks and textiles. Their tents smell like mint and cardamom. When I have money again I might go to them for material, something that would work for casualwear like a nice cotton. Leather chafes like crazy.

When he was done Wyn refused to enter the city. He looked deeply uncomfortable when I asked why and would only say “it’s been too long.”

I left it at that. The Khajit didn’t seem to be bothered when he walked a few paces from their fire and squatted there, rearranging the things he acquired in his giant pack. I’m not going to lose any sleep if he decides to go his own way after this. He’s a grown ass man. Elf. Whatever. He can do what he wants.

Barbas followed me into the city. While Wyndelius had been stoically silent the whole journey from Helgen, Barbas was a regular chatterbox, but I couldn’t openly reply to him without looking like a loon. Once we left the elf behind, I slowed my pace and quickly filled Barbas in on the arrangement I have with the Gray-Manes.

 _“So, you’re a charity case.”_ he concluded.

“No, I’m…okay maybe sort of, but-”

_“These people give you food and board and you don’t pay them, correct?”_

“I’m trying to get their son out of prison, which is more than anyone else is doing for them. Just be nice. Don’t get mud on the carpet or anything, okay?”

Olfina was the first to spot me climbing the stairs to the Wind District. She ran past the garden gate and threw her arms around me. That’s when I knew something was wrong. I found the whole family gathered in the main room, Eorlund, Axel, Eorlund’s brother Vignar, and a balding man I didn’t recognize stood around the dining table arguing loudly. Fralia sat crumpled in a chair, puffy-eyed and rung out.

I barely had time to drop my bag by the door before Vignar came at me. He crossed the room and dove into a string of accusations. I was an Imperial spy, a Thalmor agent, a foreign witch who uses her wiles to lure men to their deaths, and so on. Set aside that ridiculous bit at the end I was primed to believe that I was responsible for Avulstien’s disappearance and duly horrified. Olfina and Axel jumped to my defense. The group once again erupted into noisy arguing, too much to hear anyone properly. Eorlund had to call for quiet by slamming one of his forge hammers against a pewter serving tray.

Once the room settled Olfina pointed out that Avulstien had been sneaking off to see Mette every night since he returned from Ivarstead. Anyone could have seen him coming and going. That made me feel slightly less guilty. Still, what if he thought he would be safe because he’d gone gallivanting around with me? What if it gave him a false sense of security once he was home? As if he read my mind that was the next point Vignar made against me.

Axel huffed, “If the boy was fool enough to think that then he deserved to be captured. More like his wandering pecker set him astray.”

“If not for this _chit_ filling his head with rubbish you would still have one of your boys! Avulstien knew the danger he was in and snuck out anyway. He knew the Battle-Borns, curse them, have been waiting for their chance to put another Gray-Mane in Thalmor hands. They won’t be satisfied until our clan is wiped out!” Vignar spat under his mustache.

“A Nord takes responsibility for his own actions.” Eorlund countered gravely. “I will not blame my son’s behavior or his disappearance on a family friend.”

“And what makes this one a _friend_ , eh? Because your wife’s idiot brother says so?”

“Mind yourself, you bloated old horker!” barked Axel.

Fralia pulled herself out of her chair, yanked the hammer from her husband’s grasp, and banged the tray on the table so hard that the metal cracked.

“This. Solves. _Nothing_.”

Dang she scary. After a short, tense silence Fralia straightened and took a deep breath.

“I’ll not sit in mourning for the living. Olfina, would you go extend an invitation to supper to Mette and her boys please? Esme, help me in the kitchen when you’ve changed out of your gear, there’s a love. The rest of you will cool down on the porch. If I hear another word spoken in anger, I shall cast you from my house!”

Her tone brooked no argument. Olfina retreated through the door behind me. The men shuffled through the sunroom and out onto the small outdoor sitting area off the garden. Eorlund grabbed a pitcher of something, probably ale, and kissed his wife’s forehead affectionately before joining them. 

I followed suit, grabbing my bag off the floor, and climbing the stairs to the little guest room I’d used before. It was as I had left it except for the fresh set of clothes draped across the end of the bed.

Barbas plunked himself down in a patch of deep, golden sunlight.

 _“They’re a fun bunch!”_ he said cheerfully.

I scowled at him and turned away. This was not the state of things I was hoping to find when I got back. We’re off script. Avulstien isn’t supposed to get arrested, yet it happened and it’s my fault. I changed things too much. I made him a follower when he was never meant to be one. I encouraged him to leave the city and to pursue Mette.

 _“I can hear you beating yourself up.”_ Barbas accused while he enthusiastically rubbed his back into the carpet fibers beneath him.

“Vignar is right. If I had never come along Avulstien would still be here.”

_“Yeah, maybe but what’s done is done. Are you going to waste time feeling sorry for yourself or are you going to do something?”_

He was right of course. As I peeled off my leathers and washed, I tried to formulate. Viarmo’s offer to get me an audience with the jarl was encouraging, but by no means a guarantee of getting one brother out of prison, let alone two. There needs to be a plan B. I know Thorald was sent to a fort guarded by Thalmor, but that’s all I remember. The worst-case scenario if diplomacy fails is finding that location and arranging a jail break. I can only hope that Avulstien isn’t locked up somewhere else.

I decided that talking to Mette was the next logical step. While it would be an incredible coincidence that Avulstien’s disappearance was unrelated to his brother’s I still felt like taking it for granted was the wrong move. Assumptions get me in trouble. If Mette was the last person to see him, she might have noticed something helpful.

It also made no sense to me, when I stopped to think about it, that no one noticed a large man with easily identifiable silver hair being forcibly dragged out of the city. Twice. Just because no one came forward when Thorald was taken doesn’t mean that no one saw anything.

I left my muddy things in a corner and changed into the set of clothes Fralia had laid out. Warm woolen underthings this time, with leggings, a blue tunic, and leather jerkin with a diamond pattern tooled down the back.

Fralia was trimming the silverskin off a slab of red meat when I entered the kitchen. I got to scrubbing potatoes. There’s no water pump, so I used a cupful of water from a basin on the counter to remove the dirt. She lightly grilled the meat, then braised it in stock with marrow and onions. The potatoes were boiled, smashed, and fried in butter. It felt like old times helping in the kitchen at the bard’s college, except for the tension that hung over the whole household.

Mette brought an herb tart and a bottle of wine when she arrived with Olfina and the kids.

The first time I laid eyes on Aventus was heartbreaking. He sat with Mette’s youngest son, Bjarni, looking around wearily, as if he expected to be beaten at any moment. The kid’s traumatized. No wonder he tried to put a hit on his former caretaker. Mette said later than it was worse when he first arrived. Bjarni is a good influence on him, though, an older brother he can look up to and feel safe with.

He has his father’s dark hair and eyes, but is built like a Nord, which only makes his malnourishment more evident. His cheeks are too gaunt, bones jutting out without any of the baby fat I’m used to seeing in children his age. When we all finally sat down to eat everyone, including Vignar, pushed extra helpings onto Aventus’ plate.

We caught up over supper but refrained from discussing Avulstien until the boys went outside to play. Mette was candid about what they had been doing. Good for them. I maybe wouldn’t have gone into some of the more delicate particulars in front of my SO’s _entire_ family, but to each their own.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t noticed anything unusual about the last night they saw each other. He made a habit of turning up late after her shift was over and always left well before daybreak. They thought they were being careful. 

When I asked if anyone had questioned the guards on duty that night Mette gave me a “well duh” look over the rim of her wine glass. Of course she interrogated the entire regiment, and the beggars who sleep near the Bannered Mare and the smith’s forge, _and_ Commander Caius. No one saw a damn thing.

“What about the Companions?” I asked, directing it at Mette, but with my eye on Vignar, who bristled.

“Every member of the Companions knows the situation. They are family. Someone would have come to me if they’d seen anything.” he said indignantly.

“If they knew what it was they were seeing.” The balding man, Brill, commented.

Eorlund frowned, exchanging a pointed glance at the other two men. None of them are Companions, but Brill and Vignar live at Jorrvaskr. They know the comings and goings of the place. The shadow that fell over Vignar’s expression told me the wolves were roaming that night. 

“I will speak with Skjor and Aela.” Brill said as if to confirm my suspicion. He squeezed Vignar’s hand lovingly before excusing himself.

I couldn’t let on that I know there are werewolves in the Companions, so we continued spit-balling ideas while he was gone. Axel reminisced that during the great war one of the tactics the Altmer became known for was the “reeducation” of key prisoners. Torture, brain washing techniques, that sort of thing. If Thorald and Avulstein were labelled as potential assets, then it’s likely that they’re both still alive. That also means that we need to get them both the hell out of Thalmor custody as soon as possible.

Mette will not sit at home waiting for news. She wants to put in for a few weeks of leave again to spearhead a scouting mission to find the fort the Thalmor are using. No one will deny her. She puts on a brave face, but I can tell she’s just as devastated as Fralia, maybe more.

A while later Brill returned, not with Skjor or Aela, but a walking wall of a man with dark hair down to his shoulders and smears of war paint around his eyes. Farkas, AKA my second favorite tank.

He stood silently at the foot of the table with his arms crossed.

Brill’s synopsis confirmed, without coming out and saying it, that Farkas had been out hunting in wolf form the night Avulstein disappeared. Three figures were dragging what he’d thought was game bagged in burlap away from the city along the canal that leads to the river.

“You didn’t think to mention this before?” Eorlund asked, not unkindly.

Farkas didn’t look embarrassed, or cagey, in fact I couldn’t put a label on his expression if I had a hundred years to try. “Didn’t seem that odd at the time.” he said, “People poach, they don’t want to get caught. Wasn’t interested in getting shot at in the dark over a deer.”

“Could you see who they were?” I asked. “What they were wearing, or their weapons, anything like that?”

Intense, icy blue eyes fixed on me and the wine I’d had at dinner ran up my neck and into my cheeks.

“It was dark. Cloaks over light armor, I’d guess, they didn’t make the sort of ruckus an amateur in plate would make. Didn’t see their weapons. Didn’t hear anyone calling out; if I had I would have gone to help.”

“He was drugged, then.” Olfina said firmly. “Or paralyzed if there was a mage among them.”

Vignar confirmed that in the early days Whiterun’s sewers were built specifically to be an emergency exit should the city ever be sacked, but the tunnels and passages were fitted with a series of locked gates. Commander Caius, Jarl Balgruuf, and Proventus are the only ones with keys.

Axel snorted. “Keys can be replicated. Locks can be picked.”

"Doesn't matter now, we all know who the culprits are." snapped Vignar, who settled a bit under Fralia's withering glare.

We formed a two-pronged strategy from there. I will go back to Solitude to see how far I can get with Jarl Elisef. Meanwhile Eorlund will send inquiries to his Stormcloak contacts to the west. Mette, Farkas, and any other Companions they can convince to go will zero in on the fort once we know where it is. If Thorald and Avulstein aren’t released within a fortnight they will hit the prison.

I don’t have a lot of faith that I can get the jarl to grant a pardon, or even submit one within that timeframe, but waiting isn’t an option. Thorald has been in custody at least a month. God knows what they’ve done to him already. 

Vignar also wants revenge on the Battle-Borns. The younger ones have been taunting him in public, trying to get his famously hot temper to boil over. That’s the main reason I ended up sneaking into the Battle-Born house in the small hours of the morning. It was a calculated risk. I really wanted to avoid it, but I knew if things stayed as they were there would be blood in the streets. It’s also a lot more efficient to know where the brothers are ahead of time if legal channels fail.

I popped one of Wyndelius’ invisibility potions just to be safe. It tastes like dust and makes my ear lobes itch. Shoeless, without a jerkin or coat, I crept through the kitchen door, which was unlocked. I couldn’t believe it! They probably thought no one in their right mind would think about trying to rob them. I could see why. Their clan is much bigger than the Gray-Manes. I had to be careful not to step on the several children asleep on the floor by the fire pit, or the serving girl curled up in the pantry. If they had dogs I would have been screwed.

Every room was crammed with people, except one. The inner study off the main bedroom had the only locked door in the place. It took a while to pick the lock, I had to work slowly and stop a few times when someone turned or whimpered in their sleep. The room was dark and empty when I finally cracked it. Had to close the doors behind me, roll the rug up to block the gap, then conjure up a tiny flame so I could see. The Imperial missive took some digging to find. It was tucked into a ledger in a stack of books on the desk.

One of the kids almost caught me on the way out. A little girl, who couldn’t have been more than three or four, sat bolt upright from the bed as I reopened the study door. Her mouth hung open and she looked like she was staring right at me. I just froze, unsure in that moment if I was still invisible or not. All I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears as I held my breath and waited. She crawled over legs and tangled blankets, slipped over the side of the bed, and toddled out into the main room where I watched her settle between the other children. When the house was still again, I moved. Heal to toe in wool socks back through the kitchen, out the door, down the lane and back to the Gray-Mane house as quick as I could. I collapsed against the door out of breath, my heart pounding.

Axel just about died laughing. He was still up, sitting by the fire with Barbas and a bottle of something that smelled like paint thinner. He stopped when I showed him the missive.

_It has come to my attention that inquiries have been made as to the whereabouts of one Thorald Gray-Mane. It is my duty to inform you that Thalmor agents have taken possession of the prisoner and have escorted him to Northwatch Keep. I don’t think I need to elaborate. It is in everyone’s best interest if the matter is dropped entirely. I trust there will be no further inquiries as to this matter._

_Gen. Tullius_

“Tullius.” He spat. “That two-faced, honorless dog. This is proof enough to get those-”

I had to stop him there, he was getting loud. “Not yet.” I whispered, “If it gets back to Tullius, or the Thalmor, that we know where the fort is, they will move the prisoners and we’ll have to start over again.”

Comprehension dawned on his road map of a face and we grinned at each other. “Let them think they’ve won.”

I nodded, “Then demand the release of prisoners they don’t have any more.”

“Public, messy, everything Imperials don’t like.” Axel sat back and gave me an appraising look. “You would have made a fine little infiltrator. If I was only twenty years younger…”

“I leave tomorrow. You hang onto this, give me a few days, then let the others see it before Vignar does something stupid.”

He drank deeply from his bottle and hummed with satisfaction. “I can do that. Jervar can handle my route, his father will be glad to be rid of him.”

We sat together for a little while, mostly so I could come down from the conspiratorial high. After the last few rather lonely weeks it felt good to reconnect. Axel mumbled through a story about the great war when he was sent with a small group to retake a stronghold built into the side of a cliff. He'd scaled the walls with nothing but bare hands, a length of rope tying him to another man who could have dragged him to his death if he'd lost his grip. They forgot their terror the moment they cleared the battlement. That, he said, was a time when he still felt nothing but the glory of battle, when he reveled in victory and believed in the cause. Jarl Hoag treated his men like brothers and that was how they saw each other. Family, defending what was theirs. 

“Is it like the old days now?” I asked, staring into the dying fire. 

“Better. Hoag had a face like the ass end of a Hagraven with a temper to match. This is going to be _fun_.”


	34. Rannveig's Fast

Whiterun

Fredas, 9th of Frost Fall 4E201

Finally had that heart-to-heart chat with Barbas. We got out of the way his expectations about being reunited with his master. I have no intention of dealing with Clavicus Vile in any way, and frankly I don’t think Barbas should go back to him.

 _“I’ll tell you what,”_ Barbas said, _“you’re the closest thing to a ringer I’ve got right now. I’m gonna stick around until you change your mind, or I find someone else.”_

“Why do you want to go back to him anyway? Didn’t he treat you like crap?” I asked.

His big brown puppy eyes drooped a little. _“We have a complicated relationship. It doesn’t really matter how he treats me, he’s part of me. I’m incomplete on my own. So is he, but the stubborn jackass can’t admit it to himself. It’ll work out. If there’s one thing I have way too much of it's time.”_

Sleep wasn’t happening last night, so I was sitting cross-legged on the floor by the firepit, listening to Axel snore in his chair. It somehow seemed like the most appropriate setting to carry on a conversation with a magic dog. I finally got to ask Barbas what he meant when we first met about “candidates.”

He snorted, which I suppose is the closest noise to laughter he can make.

_“It’s part of a game they play. Well, some of them do, a few Aedra pretend that they’re too good to meddle with mortal lives, but really, they’re just not powerful enough. Or they don’t care._

_“Every new age requires a new Dragonborn. It’s a natural certainty, like a volcano erupting or a tidal wave. Swarm of locusts, you get the idea. There’s always more than one_ candidate, _I’m not sure how many, it varies._ _Cosmic insurance.”_

“Who decides that?”

_“No one, that’s the beauty of how Mundus was created. As far as what triggers the new age or why some people are chosen over others, that I don’t know. Remember, I’m just a piece of Clavicus. Before I was a dog, I was an imp bartering with Orcs. Before that I think I was a spleen.”_

“Okay, so the Daedra aren’t _creating_ candidates, but they choose them? For what?”

_“Ever bet on a horse?”_

“They’re gambling on us?!”

_“Yeah. You say that like it’s news.”_

No, not news, I have wondered before if I was in the middle of a game within a game. I just hoped it wasn’t the case.

“Any idea how a person from another world could get transported here? I touched a mirror, someone else I know fell through a reflection on a salt flat. Why didn’t everyone, all the other tourists standing there with Tony come through too? Or the other hundreds of people over the centuries who had to have brushed against that same mirror? And why was Sheogorath there?”

Barbas cocked his head in thought. _“Like I said, I don’t know everything. But you’re sure it was Sheogorath?”_

“Positive. Obnoxious older gentleman with cataracts and a Scottish brogue. Penchant for making no sense. Never far from a cheese wheel.”

_“That sounds about right. The simplest answer is that you’re probably his horse. Sorry.”_

“What do they get if their _…horse_ ends up being the Dragonborn?”

 _“Whatever was bet. Like poker, you get the pot. What that is I can’t say, I’ve been out of the loop too long. It’s usually acolytes or souls. Sometimes relics, bits and pieces of themselves, when things get_ really _competitive. They also get bragging rights and a potential Champion, but that’s a different game.”_

“What are the odds that they’ll leave me alone?”

 _“Slim. You’re a commodity now. Just remember they can’t_ make _you do anything, no matter how hard they try to convince you otherwise. Daedra use coercion, threats, promises of power, but you have to agree to their terms. Those are the rules. It_ is _weird that Sheogorath would choose someone like you, though.”_

“Someone like me?”

_“You know…eh…rational! That’s the word. I’d say he’s up to something. Or maybe he thinks you could be improved by insanity and he’s going to start working on you. Wouldn’t be the first time.”_

Barbas yawned, sticking his tongue out and letting out the tiniest whine, just like a real dog.

_“Don’t get me wrong, you’re doing great! But maybe take what certain deranged elves say with a grain of salt.”_

“You think Wyndelius could be an agent of Sheogorath?”

_“Maybe, in the past he’s thralled the insane. But that’s the question isn’t it? Is your new follower insane or something else? I wouldn’t trust him either way.”_

Dawn birds started singing. As much as I wanted to keep picking the dog’s brain, I needed sleep more.

Lorredas, 10th of Frost Fall 4E201

I have nothing against Imperials in general. In fact, if I had to choose a side in the civil war I’d back them over the Stormcloaks, because I know they’re playing the long game. The Aldmeri Dominion is the bigger picture. Without the Concordant the Empire would have eventually collapsed, and the only reason the Dominion made the deal was to minimize their own losses before what they see as they’re ultimate victory. And being the supremacist shit weasels they are ultimate victory means total domination and an end to all the human races. The only strategy the Imperials had left was to roll over, rebuild, and be ready for what comes next. The civil war is a drain on resources they don’t need, which is why the Thalmor are all for it continuing indefinitely. Why waste lives and money when you can just wait your enemy out? Supposedly elves can live up to a thousand years _. Long game_. Not months and years, but decades and centuries.

I get it, but it’s easy to forget when I’m surrounded by Stormcloak supporters who just want their people back.

Part of me wanted to show Fralia the missive, but the fewer people who know the name of the fort the better for now. Northwatch wasn’t on either of my maps, but I did find it in an old atlas tucked away in a cabinet upstairs. The keep is on the western edge of Haafingar Hold. Axel says it’s a rough road, probably seven or eight days to get there from Whiterun on foot in good weather. I need to make a stop in Morthal on the way, so I’ve asked him to give me at least a three-day head start before divulging the location of the prison. I think that will work out. 

A change of plans as of last night: Olfina now insists on coming with me. Her parents are wrecked. They can’t really poke holes in her argument that a family member should be making the appeal to the jarl, that it would have more of an impact. She’s right. That doesn’t make it easier for Fralia and Eorlund to see their youngest living child walk into a political viper’s nest. Then again Thorald and Avulstien were abducted right out from under everyone’s noses. Olfina doesn’t feel safe in Whiterun anymore. I can’t blame her for wanting to do something proactive. The rest of the family will need to stay to keep up appearances and cover for the others when they leave for Haafingar. 

I want anyone watching the family to see Olfina and me go and to know why. I want eyes on us, not Mette and the Gray-Manes. Two women going off to Solitude to submit an in-person appeal; non-threatening, but just noteworthy enough to draw notice.

Elisef might try to help, maybe, but General Tulius can’t do jack about prisoners in Thalmor custody and every time that fact comes to light it makes him look weaker. Someone showing up asking loud questions _will_ get his attention. It’s a gamble, if we overdo it and the embassy gets involved, they might put the prison on alert before the strike team gets there. They could decide to move or just kill the prisoners before things get messy, claim that they were already slated for execution on bogus treason charges and burn the bodies. I’m not sure if that’s how the Thalmor generally operate, it’s just the most evil thing I can imagine them doing.

I’m glad Olfina will be the one speaking at court. I much prefer to stay on the sidelines and after what happened to Avulstien the importance of minimizing my impact on major events hasn’t escaped me. I also don’t relish the idea of putting myself on the Thalmor radar. They don’t need to know that I’m dragonborn, just being a nuisance could land me on their hit list. But I don’t want anyone else to become a target either. This is going to be like tiptoeing on eggshells in clogs.

I thought about all of this during breakfast with the family. And while packing. And as I scrawled an English explanation about why I might be on the lam when he gets back to Tony.

I could just give up on the legal process, trust that Mette and the Companions can stealth their way across three holds and break into the prison without any subterfuge from me. The walls have ears though. Whiterun is teaming with people, it would be naïve to believe that only the Battle-Borns are spying.

In a fight against seasoned soldiers I’m still a liability, even with the thu’ums I’ve learned. What I _can_ do is facilitate the distraction and hope like hell that the rest goes off without a hitch.

Paarthurnax said that dragons are made to dominate. If I’m being honest with myself, he’s right that I feel that draw.

“Well-intentioned and profoundly flawed control freak” that’s what should be written on my gravestone.

_*Sidenote: Axel is lending us his mule. He did not find Cicero on the road coming back from his last run. The fuck? Where is that little weirdo and is this going to be a problem later?_

Since we don’t have a wagon and Axel specifically told us to avoid the pass near Labyrinthian this time of year we’re following the tributary to Morthal. It’s not so much a road as a heavily trafficked game trail winding alongside the waterway. Mud crabs are numerous and annoying. They also taste nothing like crab, more like dirty crawdad meat, sort of chewy and minerally. That was lunch, roasted mud crab legs with wild greens.

I didn’t notice Wyndelius following us when we left Whiterun. In fact, I didn’t see him at all until we stopped, and he appeared behind me like a goddamn ninja! The guy makes _no_ sound. Olfina almost stabbed him. Sigh. I had to calm everyone down and encourage her to go foraging so we could have a talk.

I asked Wyn what he was looking to get out of this arrangement.

“Arrangement?” he asked.

“You know, following me around. Wandering the province like my second shadow can’t be your life’s ambition. What is it that you want for yourself?”

He looked confused. Wyn isn’t much taller than me, so I got a good view of his grey brow furrowing. He’s pale for a dark elf. I’m not sure if that’s just his natural skin tone, or a result of spending the last year or so mostly underground.

Finally, after a few moments of eye darting and narrowing his purple lips in thought he said, “I have been trying to remember who I was before…and can’t. There is…nothing. I have read through my journal many times, but I cannot recall writing the entries and the last one…disturbs me.”

“Why?”

“The date makes no sense, for one thing. It is frantic and angry. Is that who I was when you found me? A madman?”

“You don’t remember that either?”

“Not clearly. I was…I must accept that I was not in my right mind and that I may still not be. I remember pain and purpose. Then when we entered the final chamber, the sound that filled it when you approached…it was like waking up.”

“You didn’t say anything before.”

“It’s taken me this long to organize my thoughts. Everything…nothing feels real. I’m awake, but I’m someone else now. I will…leave. If you wish.”

I feel bad for him. Wyn chooses his words so carefully. He wants so much to be understood. I can’t ask him to go. He’ll just end up getting into trouble and I don’t need that on my conscience.

I told him that eventually his memory will come back, but I don’t really know that. It’s not soap opera amnesia, no dramatic gunshot wound or bump on the head will suddenly make him all better. I’m not even sure if it was isolation or some other combination of factors that did this to him. He might have developed some sort of dissociative disorder due to trauma, but it could also be congenital. It’s not like there’s a qualified psychiatrist he can talk to in Skyrim. That’s what he needs. All I can do is be someone who listens. In turn Wyn agreed to be a little more communicative, which I think will make things easier on everyone. Just a “good morning” or the occasional “I’m still here” would suffice. If that doesn’t work, I might put bells on his shoes.

We could see the spires of a temple from where we stopped. Just the top of a stylized stone dragon head peaked over the rocky crags above us. Rannveig’s Fast. It’s on my map thanks to the heavy annotations Axel and Eorlund made. There’s a shortcut through the mountains up that way, but the climb would be hard on Ferris, so we’re sticking to the longer, slightly easier way around. Tried to be careful breaking camp again, Barbas said he could hear people up there. It’s right off the trail so I’m sure it’s a popular rest stop. They saw us anyway. It was probably the fire; that and the fact that they had a high ground POV.

I wasn’t sure what happened at first. One minute I was holding Ferris’ reins while Olfina adjusted the saddle bags, the next Barbas started barking like crazy. There were five of them. They looked normal from a distance, dressed in leathers like hunters or bandits. Of course, the fact that they were rushing us from the hillside with weapons drawn got my attention. It only occurred to me afterwards that they didn’t make any sound. No war cries or demands or threats.

Barbas did what a good tank does best, he jumped headfirst into the fray and didn’t come out again until his target was down. Olfina is all technique. While I struggled to keep Ferris from bolting, she deftly threw her dagger into the face of one attacker. The man just kept coming, with a blade firmly lodged in one eye socket. The wound didn’t bleed, and a distinct, unpleasantly familiar blue glow emanated from the uninjured eye. Olfina drew her short sword and sliced off his head in one clean motion. The body dropped to its knees. The head rolled a little, then stopped when the knife handle lodged in a tuft of grass, propping it up like a kick stand. For a few seconds I watched the man’s mouth move and twitch. Whatever he wanted to say disintegrated along with the rest of him. The same happened to the rest. After only a few minutes our little camping site was littered with piles of greasy ash.

I felt pretty useless. Didn’t even get to use a thu’um. We all agreed that it had to have been the work of a necromancer and climbed up to the wide stone portico in front of the temple doors expecting to find a mage, but there was nothing. Some rudimentary tents had been set up, the firepit was cold, and a few putrid bones had been left to rot. No other sign of people. As we approached the doors however two ghosts with spectral swords appeared. My first siting, if you can call it that. They were barely visible in the sunlight. The tip of a blade stabbed through the leather padding at my shoulder before I even knew it was there. I Shouted on instinct, which sent both ghosts stumbling backward as if the laws of physics still applied to them. 

They were easily killed…or exercised or whatever you call it when you kill something that’s already dead. I don’t understand how a ghost is able to inflict any damage at all. What are they made of? I vaguely remember Phinis saying something about spirit blades being composed of ambient energy compressed to a greater density than its natural state, but frankly I had no idea what he was talking about at the time and just nodded until he went away.

So, the soul complete with clothes and weapons is transparent, but still corporeal enough to interact with the physical world. Huh. I really should have paid closer attention to conjuration lectures at the mage’s college.

The cut I received wasn’t very deep but bled down the inside of my clothes, so I got to contend with being sticky and then crusty the rest of the day. Joy.

After the initial shock of seeing me use a thu’um for the first time wore off Wyn contended that the necromancer responsible was probably hiding inside the temple and that we should go kill him. Can’t argue with that logic, but Olfina rightly pointed out that we’re on a tight schedule. I had to decide.

We weren’t going to make it to Morthal by nightfall anyway, and the thought of leaving whatever dickhole had enslaved those spirits free to do it again did not sit right with me. Olfina and I looted the ash piles for anything useful: total take was 22 gold, an Orcish dagger, and a battered silver ring with an empty stone setting. We all agreed not to touch the food. Wyn tied Ferris to a pillar with a pile of cabbage and rubbery carrots at his feet.

I could remember exactly nothing about the location from the outside. The doors were massive, but we didn’t have to move them. There was a smaller entry to one side, something I don’t remember ever seeing during a playthrough. It makes sense, though. Dragon temples had to have entries big enough to accommodate their lizard lords, but they also needed to have an easy way for servants and priests to get in and out. The main chamber was empty and overgrown with ferns and weeds. Several chunks of masonry were missing from the ceiling, letting in some light and probably a good amount of rain over the years. I was a little worried about it coming down on us.

Wyn was unofficially put in charge of looting. He’s the one with the giant pack after all. Standard stuff, some burial urns with a little gold, some jewelry. Olfina took out another ghost with her bow. Instead of ash something like an oily puddle of kinetic sand formed and slowly seeped into the cracks in the floor. What jogged a vague memory was that it spoke before it disintegrated. It said, “I’m sorry.” That rang a bell.

It didn’t take but a few minutes to get to the word wall chamber. Whoever moved in had already killed the draugr and replaced them with highly repentant ghosts. Poor bastards. Once I walked up to the dais and noticed the very obvious trapdoor, I remembered this dungeon. More specifically I remembered feeling like an idiot for stepping into the trap on my first playthrough. I had to grab Wyn before he went for the empty chest. The wall gave me _Drem_ , Peace, which had a pleasant, feathery quality like jumping into a down mattress. I should practice my dovahzul. Arngeir gave me a book, but I haven’t looked at it since I left High Hrothgar.

Anyway, I pointed the trap out to the others, then we snuck around the side entrance, dispatched the other enslaved spirits, and got to the main horror show. A thrall stood by the central cage with her back to us. Without warning she turned, throwing a fireball that caught Olfina’s fur cloak. I shot fire back at the same time Wyn unleashed an arrow into the woman’s neck. She went down like a wet sack of gravel. Olfina was only lightly singed, but it pissed her off enough to go kick the thrall’s dead body. She stopped mid-motion. When I asked what was wrong, she looked back at me with a horrified expression.

“Someone cut out her tongue.” Olfina swallowed thickly.

The mage wasn’t there. We checked every cell, and all the chambers. There were seven bodies in various states of decay, probably tomb robbers. I don’t know if there are adjectives in any language sufficient to describe the smell. I had Wyn pocket the stone of Barenziah and whatever else he cared to pick up while I gathered all the papers, books, and journals I could find before we left. We don’t have time to stake out the place until the necromancer comes back, assuming he does. I’ll inform Idgrod when we get to Morthal. The temple falls under her Hold’s jurisdiction after all.

Hit the road again in a somber mood. There were only a few hours of daylight left, but none of us wanted to camp there. Instead, we stopped on the driest bit of ground we could find near the Hjal river. Barbas went off in search of small game while Olfina speared a few fish and busied herself with cooking. It seemed to help her calm down.

I studied the journals and papers I took. Sild is the warlock’s name and he’s another sick fuck. What has me worried isn’t the journal entries describing how much he loves torturing his victims, but the stack of letters I found tucked in a copy of Horror at Castle Xyr. Four distinct sets of handwriting, some signed, others only initialed. The first was from someone named Lucilla describing a lovely trip to Morrowind where “we found another one.” The other one she described in the letter as a “healthy human male of fair complexion” whose language and origins could not be determined.

_“The man wandered in from the hills west of Narsis and was being held for violent behavior when approached by members of the local watch. Upon inquiry we were told that he spoke no language the magistrate or priests could understand, wore clothes of a wholly alien style and material, and bore upon his person no weapon or token that could be readily identified. This, you will have guessed, brought my dear brother to raptures! For is this not the very same description our mutual friend imparted all those years ago? We have acquired him by a moderate sum of gold. A small sacrifice to be sure. I have also informed M, who will no doubt be enthralled with our success in acquiring a new specimen. We will of course provide regular updates as to our progress.”_

And did they ever. Reports in Lucilla’s handwriting and another more masculine hand described the effects the “subject’s” blood, skin, and other “harvested tissues” had on various alchemical and enchantment experiments in nauseating detail. The same thing that apothecary at Helgen did to Tony. The masculine entries were initialed C.C. and I’ll bet my left kidney it stands for Calixto Corrium. The earliest letters are dated seven years ago, when his sister Lucilla was still alive.

I’m not sure who _M_ is yet, but I’m pretty sure it’s a woman based on the handwriting. She’s a bitch whoever she is. The note is a brief, curt reminder that Sild owes her for “that unfortunate business in Markarth” when she had to call in a favor for him. It’s a pay up or I’ll break your kneecaps letter, basically. The rest are from someone named Arondil. They’re swapping notes, things that work, things that don’t. It’s a fucking necromancer club. People are “subjects” and “raw materials.” They talk about them like baseball cards. You have a Redguard? Well, I got my hands on an Earthling! My Babe Ruth beats your Lou Gehrig. Thinking about this is actually making me ill.

We’ll get to Morthal tomorrow early, I hope. I want to talk to Idgrod about all of this. She’ll have perspective, maybe even have heard of some of these people. They need to be _stopped_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, folks! This is the last entry of 2020. As crappy as this year has been at least it got me to stick with a writing project, even if it was out of sheer boredom. I think I will actually finish this thing instead of getting distracted and wandering off to go do something else like I normally would. Anyway, I hope this chapter is up to snuff, I reeeeally wanted to get it done before Christmas! Stay safe, be well, all that stuff.


	35. Patience

Morthal

Sundas, 11th of Frost Fall 4E201

I tried to sleep. I really did. We set up a single tent and piled in together to stay warm, but I still woke up with a cold, streaming nose and someone’s foot poking my back. There’s no point laying wide awake all night on a lumpy bedroll. Olfina also snores like a jackhammer. It’s clear out, both moons shining so bright I don’t need a lamp to see.

What the hell am I going to do? It was bad enough when I imagined other displaced people wandering around Tamriel looking for help. Like Sarah, trudging through the snow and mud in her flimsy canvas sneakers. Did she have any idea where she was when Calixto found her? Did she try to get away? This is fucked.

I hope they all fought tooth and nail for their lives. Maybe a few are still out there. Now that I know we’re all being hunted…well shit, it puts everything into a sharper focus. There’s so much I need to know, so much ground to cover. Alduin can fucking wait. Once this business with the Gray-Manes is resolved I have a score to settle with some necromancers and a wide-spread covert humanitarian outreach effort to organize. I have no idea how yet; I’ll figure it out as I go.

****

Morthal hasn’t changed. I thought maybe the passing seasons would have done something more than turn the leaves brown, but it’s still the same wet, grey hub between the marshes and uplands.

I sat up thinking til dawn. It’s good to stop and process. The many-headed hydra of anxiety isn’t going to be leaving me alone any time soon, so compartmentalizing seems reasonable. There’s the DB thing, and the prison break, not to mention what to do about the Blades, Tony and the Thieves Guild, figuring out how to eventually get to Alduin without flying (I am NOT bare backing a dragon up to that eyrie, I will puke and pass out if I try. Find an alternative!) and oh yeah, the whole being hunted by a group of asshole necros thing.

I also completely forgot to ask if Aventus ever made it back to Windhelm, so I don’t know if the Dark Brotherhood is in play.

Idgrod, bless her, let me unburden myself over copious amounts of watered wine while we caught up. She showed me to her sitting room, away from the Imperial captain’s quarters off the main throne area. The real changes here have been happening behind the scenes, mostly involving the vampire problem, and she has no interest in getting the Imperial army involved. Isran came through a few weeks ago to discuss discreetly turning Morthal into the northern base of operations for the Dawnguard while they rebuild. He and Falion bicker like fishwives apparently, but Idgrod eventually got them to agree to work together. Falion refuses to leave Morthal or participate in any missions, however. He does have a kid to look after, so it’s understandable. Locally, Benor was recruited. After being rejected by the Companions he was thrilled to get an offer and takes his new position very seriously. He’s currently checking out a coven somewhere near Rorikstead.

Idgrod hasn’t heard of any of the necromancers mentioned in the pile of correspondence I found, but she agrees that it should be investigated. They’re still short on people, so maybe Benor can check Rannveig’s Fast out on his way back. Falion thinks he may have heard of Arondil from his college days. Conjuration students tend to disagree with the way Savos runs things and leave to pursue their own interests. Maybe there are admission records or something? I’ll write to Tolfdir.

Falion asked if I’d read The Doors of Oblivion as he’d instructed. Whoops. He didn’t mince words; the book was written by the apprentice of a mage who found a way into Oblivion and trapped himself in Apocrypha due to his own lust for knowledge. It really bothers me how many cautionary tales about knowledge being a _bad_ thing there are here. No wonder most Nords don’t take education seriously.

Falion is concerned that if I try to go back through that mirror the same thing might happen to me. I could get stuck in the Shivering Isles with Sheogorath. I appreciate his concern, but two things:

  1. If Barbas is right and Sheogorath bet on me to be the DB it would make no sense for him to keep me from that purpose. I can’t defeat Alduin if I’m stuck in his realm. Granted, he might try to drive me crazy before letting me out, but he _would_ let me out.



  1. I don’t think the mirror leads to Oblivion, or even can. Doesn’t he say to the player that they’re inside the mind of Pelagius II? If that’s the case would you really be inside his head or in your own? Either way the risk is still mental rather than physical.



Am I stable enough to withstand the kind of mental attacks he can throw at me? Maybe. I think it’s a solid maybe. I’ll sit on that for now, since Falion refuses to help any further on moral grounds. He worries. The townspeople need to stop giving him shit, he’s really a decent guy.

In other news the Skyrim rumor mill is all abuzz with dragon talk. Most of it is horseshit, and this pleases me to no end. Some people are saying that the dragon in Whiterun was taken out by the local guards, others say that it was a mysterious mage who died in the attack. The majority, at least among the people Idgrod has heard from, don’t believe that it was really a Dragonborn who showed up. Maybe an impostor, but certainly not the real thing. Halle-freakin-luja for small favors!

After a few hours of talking and getting nicely toasted Idgrod grabbed my hand and insisted we go for a stroll. Ended up on the walkway along the water where most of the newer houses are. No one wants Alva’s old place. She’s dead, for real now, wiped out along with the rest of Movran’s followers. So, since Idgrod owns the property she’s going to rent it out to me officially, with the understanding that passing Dawnguard will use it as temp housing. If anyone asks it’s my place. Cool, I have a house! A house with several months’ worth of dust and a coffin in the basement, but hey for ten gold a month it’s a bargain. I spent a little time after Idgrod handed over the keys stripping the beds and tossing all the spoiled food and garbage stinking up the place. Opened all the windows and doors to let it air out.

The basement is a great place to practice thu’ums, or at least better than doing it out in the open where people can stare and point. The coffin has been reduced to kindling. I managed to make myself ethereal and walked right through the dais it was on. From a practical point of view, I am not sure how useful that Shout is except to keep myself from getting hit by something I can see coming, but it’s fun. Makes you feel like you’re being held together by static cling, kind of…floaty but not.

Barbas agreed to stand guard while Olfina and I trotted off to supper at the lodge with Lami and Idgrod the Younger (who I think I will start calling Idgie to see if it sticks). Wyn disappeared right after we arrived this morning and just turned up after dark, somehow knowing we weren’t at the inn. He said he was scouting the area for “anything of note.” Ninja creeper. If he wasn’t Morag Tong in his past life, I’m a club-footed unicorn.

We’ll leave for Solitude at first light. I’m not crossing that damn swamp this time, so we’re taking the road to Dragons Bridge. It’s a slight detour, but a necessary one. That road should be relatively safe to travel once we get past Fort Snowhawk.

Solitude

Morndas, 12th of Frost Fall 4E201

It was still dark this morning when we left Morthal and stayed dark most of the day. I half expected a bandit attack as we passed the fort, so much so that I almost didn’t see the pair of chaurus slink out from the sunken portion of the keep behind us. Their mandibles make a distinct clicking sound I remembered from my first foray into this area. Good god, how many months has it been now? Fortunately like most things they shy away from fire, so I managed to avoid getting bitten. Wyn caught venom across the chest through the openings in his armor. While the rest of us finished the damn bugs off he stripped to the waist and went running for the nearest water. Poor guy. That shit burns like a motherfucker. He rode the rest of the way to Dragons Bridge with a nasty rash across the nips. I gave him my bearskin and a healing potion that didn’t do much but help scab it over. Once we reached the village Olfina whipped up a stronger potion and a gloppy paste that took care of it. I begged her to teach me the recipe, it didn’t even scar!

Dragons Bridge has a military atmosphere, likely because of the Penitus Oculatus headquarters. Most of the residents are watchful and visibly tense. Everyone at the inn eyed us like a bunch of off-duty cops. I didn’t like it at all.

Wyn still looked sweaty and sick but insisted that he didn’t need a rest, so we hit the road right after lunch. It was no surprise that, just like Whiterun, he refused to enter the city proper. I’d wager that he’s got a bounty on his head in a hold or two, he just can’t remember exactly which ones. Who keeps records of that sort of thing? There must be a magistrate or something? I’ll look into that.

Olfina opted to stay at the inn. She says bards make her uncomfortable (I wonder if Mikael had anything to do with that?). Barbas followed me to the college. It was cold today and the wind smells like snow, so the streets were emptier than usual. Or maybe it just seemed that way. I knocked on the kitchen door, the same door Bendt ushered me in all those months ago when he decided he was sick of seeing me sleeping behind the cabbage barrels. It was Alda who answered. The moment she saw me she threw her arms around my shoulders and started babbling excitedly about how they’d been expecting me for weeks.

Weeks. Weeks? What the hell has Viarmo been telling everyone?

The kitchen still smells like smoked fish and sage. So does Bendt. He and Evette were arguing over the consistency of a soup when I stepped into the doorway, just soaking in the atmosphere. Alda announced my return the only way she knows how to do anything: loudly. Pretty soon a steady stream of familiar faces started bounding down the stairs as word went around. Lisette brought the little lap drum I used to play and insisted that we would have a jam session after supper. Ildi shyly welcomed me back.

“Aia and Jorn graduated.” she whispered conspiratorially, as if it was a juicy secret.

Jorn did exactly what he said he would do, joined the Legion as a drummer. Aia somehow fenagled her way into the position of court bard to the jarl of Falkreath. If he’s half as smarmy as I remember they deserve each other.

Bendt and Evette are finally talking about getting married. They’ve only been together for the last _decade_ , so I guess it was bound to come up sometime. Evette insists that I attend the ceremony at the Temple of Mara when they set a date. Bendt grumbled about having to go all that way when they have a perfectly serviceable temple in Solitude. Half the room looked scandalized for Evette. I get the vibe that tying the knot at the Temple of the Divines is the equivalent of going to the local courthouse in your work clothes instead of having a big church wedding. It’s not like either of them haven’t been married before, but I have no doubt he’ll fold if it makes her happy. Grumpy old people in love are adorable.

I don’t remember being quite as popular before, but then when I first arrived in Skyrim, I couldn’t string two words together and spent most of my time scrubbing the floors. We’ve come a long way, baby.

Viarmo wasn’t kidding when he wrote that my letters have become entertainment for the students. My life is like an old radio serial, one that they’ve been speculating about and embellishing this whole time it seems. Ildi actually asked me in an awed, hushed voice if Ulfric Stormcloak “ravished” me before riding off ahead of the Imperial pursuit. Oh lord. I had to kill that fantasy with truth. Several of the girls, and Giraud, looked disappointed, but I’m not about to let rumors of a post-murder swamp fuck with my kidnapper run rampant.

Speaking of Viarmo he appeared at my side and stayed there through supper, while students and teachers came in and out to talk and eat like they always did. No podium is safe. I was obliged to repeat a few stories several times, especially the one about how I got the scars on my hand. They’re impossible not to notice. I’m just going to have to accept that that one is going to haunt me forever. Viarmo doesn’t seem to mind. After the fourth or fifth time telling the ice wraith story, he sandwiched my hand between his and kept it perched on his knee til the kitchen finally cleared out and Lisette made good on her threat to drag me upstairs to perform.

At first, I just did my backup drum thing for Lisette and Pantea. After a couple dozen bottles of wine had gone around, they managed to convince me to sing. I knew I couldn’t carry a tune in Tamrielic, my accent is way too thick, so I launched into the only song I could remember in its entirety at that moment: For What It’s Worth by Buffalo Springfield. Why that particular song came to mind I have no idea. Maybe because it was a childhood favorite. I loved the Muppet Show version with the forest creatures. Muppet possums hiding from muppet hunters firing their muppet guns in the air. The anti-war message didn’t click until way later.

Managed not to cry. I had to play it off as a song in the native dialect of…Betony. Sigh. I got a few “good tries” and “that was unique!” comments before Lisette took over again. Only Barbas knew what I was singing. He didn’t say anything from the corner he’d curled up in, but I got the impression that the scene amused him.

Viarmo discreetly pulled me away from the group. He led me through the main entry to the west wing. I thought for a panicky second that he was going to try to get me alone in his rooms, which I was not prepared for in any way, but he steered us into the little conference area off the hallway they use for meetings. Once we were alone, he let his Headmaster façade drop, wrapping me up in a fierce hug and burying his face in my hair.

“You’re a terrible singer.” He mumbled.

We both burst into laughter. The hug loosened but neither of us broke away. Maybe I should have told the whole truth right then, to be sure he knows what he’s getting into. I’m not just a weird girl who fell into misadventure, I’m a goddamn dragonborn off-worlder.

I couldn’t do it. I can’t give up being a person yet, I’m not selfless enough. We spent the rest of the evening listening to the echoes of the party and talking about the people I’ve met and the agenda I’ve adopted for the Gray-Manes. Everything but the bits I’m not ready to tackle yet. It was the longest in-person conversation we’ve ever had, and it was damn enjoyable. We settled on a settee where I could plaster myself to his side and put my ear to his chest so I could hear the rumble as he spoke. He didn’t once try to cop a feel, the classy bastard. His hands did rove over my arms, gently raking up and down and…I am in serious trouble. 

After a short silence he dropped the pebble: “What will it take to keep you this time?”

I was getting sleepy and shook my head. “I have…obligations.”

“But not to me. Not to Solitude. Once your business is done with these friends of yours, you’ll leave again, won’t you?”

“And come back again. You tour, how is it different?”

He sighed. “When I tour it’s a few weeks out of the year, not months. And that was before there were dragon attacks and a worsening civil war to deal with. Not to mention the bandit raids, necromancers, and whatever else you’re not telling me about.”

“You could come with me.” I offered. I knew it was hollow, so did he judging by the sardonic noise he made.

“I have obligations, too.” He started playing with my hair, pulling the section that had been lopped short by a draugr’s blade between his fingers. “When reports from Whiterun started coming in I immediately thought of you; if you were whole and what I would do with myself if you weren’t. I decided that I can wait. For news, for a letter or a token. I can wait.”

Well, that was just too sweet for me not to make a move. His beard was scratchy, but I didn’t care. It smelled nice, spicy, and he tasted like wine. And GODDAMMIT in barged Giraud and Ahtar with their hands down each other’s pants! Helgi and some of the other apprentices stumbled drunkenly after them, like cheerleaders egging them on. When they saw into our alcove they started hooting even louder. Viarmo went scarlet and hopped up like he’d been snake bit. He resumed his Headmaster cadence and ordered them all to bed, then glared at Giraud, hissing “Your own room next time!” 

The moment was gone. There’s always tomorrow, but the day will be primarily taken up with preparations to go to Court. Patience is a virtue I keep reminding myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have more experience writing horrifically bloody and cruel things happening to my characters than touchy-feely sexy times, so much frustration and angst will result. Sorry if that's not what you're here for, but Ez was getting into it and that simply won't do.
> 
> Also I’m linking the Muppet version of For What Its Worth because I love it: https://youtu.be/hXknN2RoXO4


	36. Prelude

Solitude

Tirdas, 13th of Frost Fall 4E201

Sleeping in the dorms again was almost nostalgic. Opened my eyes to pre-dawn darkness with a pounding headache and cotton mouth. Hydrate next time, woman! Barbas had snuggled up against my side at some point in the night. I found Helgi and Fjori both passed out next to the bed, pretzeled around each other on the cold, hard floor. Instead of banging my boots together over their heads for interrupting…whatever that was last night I decided to be nice and tiptoed past them as quietly as possible on my way to the water closet. Which is just a closet with a chamber pot and a wash basin in case posterity wishes to know. Alda did take my suggestion to put grain alcohol in the wash water. A small step to avoiding a myriad of diseases, but you have to start somewhere.

I remembered that my stuff is still stashed deep in the cellar and went scurrying off in search of pain killers. I’ve yet to find a good substitute for extra strength ibuprofen. My backpack was still wrapped in a burlap sack behind a massive stack of wine barrels. I dry swallowed a couple gel caps, then rummaged through the brightly colored office supplies and books I haven’t seen in months. I’d like to bring my notebook with me when I leave, but it’s still too risky to have anyone see it. Couldn’t find my lighter. Probably way down at the bottom, I’ll look for it later.

I found Bendt up and opted to help him finish the baking. Soul of brevity that he is there was no small talk or gossip. He did say as he pulled the loaves out of the oven that Viarmo still has a standing breakfast order and asked if I wouldn’t mind bringing it to him. I thought I caught the faintest glint of mischief in his eye when he said it, but that could have been his glaucoma.

Barbas followed me up the stairs once I had the tray loaded. Poor Miko is scared shitless of him. He won’t come out from under Bendt’s chair.

No one else was up yet. I’m absurdly grateful for that, if I’d been seen going in or worse _out_ of Viarmo’s rooms it would have been a whole day of awkward speculation and giggling behind my back.

I had to knock with my foot, since my arms were full. Eventually I heard an exasperated sound, feet hitting the floor followed by a yelp; the door swung open to a disheveled, irritated elf. Viarmo is not a morning person at the best of times. His expression softened when he saw me, though. He took the tray and ushered me in, leaving Barbas outside. I’m sure I heard an indignant chuff right before the door closed.

As soon as we were alone, Viarmo started falling over himself apologizing for “endangering” my reputation. The very idea that he’s worried about sullying my good name after one kiss and a little cuddling at a college party is so sweetly absurd, I almost can’t wrap my head around it. The things my undergrad friends did at the parties they used to drag me to would have scandalized him into a coma! I had to stifle a fit of laughter imagining all the bards last night doing Jell-O shots and playing beer pong with ox horn cups. Medieval rager, ya’ll! Can you play dubstep with a lute and drums? I’m sure it’s been tried…

I assured him that I was not overly worried about it and he shouldn’t be either. We’re all adults here! In fact, he could very well be old enough to be my father, I’ve yet to find a delicate way of asking.

We had breakfast together and discussed the upcoming day. Thane Bryling is the one Viarmo reached out to and she’ll be the one championing the appeal at Court. All Olfina has to do is make a heartfelt plea to the jarl. She can do it; she loves her brothers, and the jarl will see that.

Viarmo doesn’t want me to go with her. He pointed out that it will be a long, drawn-out affair full of all the ‘pomp and ceremony one should expect of nobles with Imperial ties.’ Point taken; I know literally nothing about Court etiquette. I wasn’t going to really participate, though. I was going as emotional support, and if I’m honest to be sure nothing goes sideways. What if something unexpected happens? Would Olfina know what to do? Would Bryling be able to protect her? There are too many variables and I just don’t know if removing myself will help or hurt their case. Every instinct I have tells me to stay in control of the situation. I can’t be in control, even up to the point that’s possible, if I’m not there.

There’s also the matter of the Pelagius Wing. Now isn’t the time to go running off to the Shivering Isles, I realize that. If Falion is right and I can’t get back…I really don’t know what will happen. Alduin isn’t going to stop what he’s doing because I step off the grid for a while. It would be an irresponsible risk. BUT! That maid who saw me the very first night might know something about other displaced people. I couldn’t ask her questions before but I sure as shit intend to now.

Naturally, I didn’t tell Viarmo about any of that. I did press the emotional support angle. Olfina is my friend and the Gray-Mane clan has been extremely kind to me. I can’t just send her in there alone.

Eventually he conceded and dropped the subject. I like that he can do that. Viarmo doesn’t get angry when you argue with him as long as you have a point. What annoys him most is waste. Money, time, things that should be put to good use and aren’t infuriate him. I think I understand better why he used to get so frustrated with me when I couldn’t speak the language, I was spending precious time trying and failing to pantomime ideas instead of learning how to properly convey them. When I applied myself and showed improvement, he started to see me in a better light.

He held the door open for me, checking the hallway first to be sure the coast was clear, and kissed my forehead before letting me slink back to the kitchen. Barbas followed, asking inappropriate questions in my wake. He finally stopped when I asked him if he was familiar with the word “neuter.”

Bryling was expecting us in the afternoon, so that gave me some time to drink a whole jug of water and take a sponge bath. If I was in charge of the college my first order of business would be to put in a real bathroom with a tub and everything. I get that it’s a huge luxury when resources are far from limitless, I do. I will also probably never stop missing hot showers and the absolute decadence of indoor plumbing. 

Stop dwelling. Stop it! Moping over the things you don’t have anymore is pointless!

Ildi, who was somehow completely unaffected by last night’s revelry and I envy her deeply, agreed to run a message to Olfina at the Winking Skeever. She met me and Viarmo in front of the college, looking around nervously like she was afraid someone was going to jump out and forcibly serenade her. (Mikael is getting a lecture about boundaries and consent the next time I’m in Whiterun!)

Thane Bryling is…intense? I can’t think of a better word. It’s not like she’s aggressive, but there’s a no-nonsense efficiency about her that all but demands respect. I’d bet she had at least some military training before she took over her family estate. She and Olfina get along famously, which is great. She also doesn’t think it’s necessary for me to go to Court with them and that’s less great. Viarmo shot me a “I told ya so” grin from across the table when she suggested that I stay at the college. It was distracting. The man should smile more often, he has very nice teeth. I’m not even sure how that’s possible. Maybe dentists exist in the Summerset Isles.

Eventually we came to a compromise. Begrudgingly. I might have pouted a little. I’ll stay in the servant’s area while they go up to the gallery to wait their turn to speak with the jarl. That will allow me to track down that maid without actually being seen by any of the important people. And if something goes wrong, I’ll be close enough to know about it quickly.

The jarl won’t hear the appeal until tomorrow. Cutting it close. I figure if Axel did his part Mette will have left Whiterun by now. That gives us about a week before they get to the fort. And I have no way of getting word to them out in the field if something goes wrong, so the outcome from here is largely out of my hands.

After the meeting with Bryling we walked around the Market, picking up a few small things, because I’m forever strapped for cash, before heading to the Skeever for dinner. Lots of familiar faces. I thought I saw someone who could have been Malborn, but he disappeared behind a group of merchants before I could get a better look.

Tomorrow is a giant question mark and it’s got my imagination working overtime. I wish I could turn it off. I don’t want to think about all the things that could go horribly wrong, they just pop into my head, unbidden, one after the other until I’m a worried wreck. What if a Thalmor agent recognizes Olfina? What if the appeal is not only denied but they produce a warrant for her arrest on the same supposed Concordant violations that they got her brothers with? What if they accuse us both of being Talos worshippers? What if the appeal goes through but Mette still attacks the prison because the Thalmor don’t release Thorald and Avulstein soon enough? What if Avulstein is being held at a completely different location than his brother?

Aaaaaah!

Viarmo picked up on my anxiety and started massaging my neck. We were sitting side by side with our backs against the wall, partly hidden in shadow. The rest of the table, and the other patrons in the room, were giving their full attention to Lisette, who was raking in the tips. I had almost forgotten how good she is at working a crowd. Viarmo kept his eyes forward while working down my vertebrae, applying pressure til the knots I didn’t realize I had loosened.

_Damn_. Well educated, for Tamriel anyway, with pretty eyes, nice teeth, and magic fingers…how is he still single? And if he’s not, if he’s got an estranged wife and kids somewhere, do I care?

Yes. Yes, I do. That would be a deal breaker for me. I’m not a prude, but I’m not a homewrecker either. Still, I won’t pretend that I didn’t enjoy the contact.

So far, the feelers I’ve sent out about his past, before he was headmaster, have been gently redirected to other subjects. I can’t really be mad about that; I do the same thing when my past comes up. I’ve decided not to push. Let whatever wants to happen happen naturally. And if there’s something he needs to tell me he can do it when he feels comfortable.

Olfina reluctantly agreed to save her money and come stay with us at the college. Viarmo looked a little disappointed but shrugged it off and hugged me before going off to attend to the business he'd neglected by spending the day out.

Us girls camped in the dorm for a while, swapping stories with the other apprentices and pretending that tomorrow isn’t going to be nightmarishly stressful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s always bothered me that you don’t really have a non-violent way to get Thorald out of prison in the game. The option is there, but it’s a dead end and that’s super frustrating when you’re trying to play bloodless. Ever try sneaking in there and getting him out without killing anyone? Nightmare. Supposedly you can if you finish the civil war quest line first, then talk to Tulius, but it's never worked for me on the console version. I think you need a mod? Okay, rant over. I'm agonizing over the next chapter. Esme is going to be soooo mad at me...
> 
> Thanks for sticking around guys, it means a lot!


	37. Neglect Becomes Our Ally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter  
> ***trigger warning: torture, odontophobia, coprophobia and paronomasiaphobia***

Dawnstar

Middas, 21st of Frost Fall 4E201

Where the hell do I even start? I’ve been sitting here, staring at this blank page for what feels like an eternity, trying to organize the last eight days in my head. How do I turn all of this into something constructive? Something that isn’t just me screaming my fury into the Void?

And I am thoroughly pissed off! If I don’t get it out it’s going to harm me, psychologically. Probably already has.

Okay, let’s start at the beginning.

On the 14th Olfina and I left the college and met Bryling at the palace. Just as we’d discussed they went upstairs to the gallery to wait their turn to speak to the jarl and I broke off to the kitchens. I thought just wearing plain clothes and blending in with the staff would keep me relatively safe and unnoticed. Oh, past Esme, you naïve fool.

I was immediately recognized as “that woman Ulfric Stormcloak took hostage” and soon had a little mob of servants around me. Upside though, Erdi, the maid who kicked me out that first night was among them. It took some coercion to get her alone so I could interrogate her. I ~~interrogated~~ asked very nicely if she knew whether anyone else had come out of the Pelagius Wing like I had? Meaning, confused, and probably frantically speaking a foreign language? She was reluctant to say anything until the head housekeeper, Una, came in. She’s a friend of Evette’s and doesn’t mince words. That got the ball rolling.

Part of the lore of the Pelagius Wing, other than it’s haunted, is that periodically people just appear out of there. Over the centuries it’s been investigated. Every exit except one was long ago bricked up, blocked, or collapsed. Still, at random people will just show up, stuck behind the locked door, calling for help.

The solution the staff decided to go with, probably a hundred years ago or more, was to keep that damn door locked and deal with the newcomers as they come. Since Una started as a girl, trailing her mother who had been the housekeeper before her, a total of seven people have come out of that wing, including me. Two are dead for sure. Una was sent in there to do the monthly quick clean about a decade ago and found the corpse of a woman who had presumably fallen down the stairs in the dark and broke her neck. The second was a man who was stabbed in the gut by a frightened guard when he rushed out of the door. That was about four years ago. Una deadpanned that the guard resigned and became a blacksmith after that. The murdered man was buried in the palace garden without ceremony or an investigation.

The other five were treated very much as I was, given some clothes and shoved out the door. ‘We don’t want to deal with you, get out and best of luck.’ What a fucking compassionate policy.

I was the last one. When I asked if anyone had thought to have a mage check the Pelagius Wing for magic doors or portals Erdi looked like I’d just broached a taboo subject. Una lowered her voice to a dark whisper and said it’s been tried. Early jarls sent groups of mages to check the wing time after time, but they always retreated in horror before they could even get to the second floor. Some disappeared altogether. In her mother’s time Sybille Stentor, the jarl’s court mage, ventured into the wing to investigate. She was gone for hours. When she emerged she had changed.

“We do not speak of it.” Erdi said with her eyes trained to the ground. Even tough, acerbic Una shifted uncomfortably and kept checking the doorway to be sure no one was listening.

So that was enough for me to conclude that Sybille _is_ a vampire. That puts a new spin on things. What the hell happened in there that resulted in her contracting vampirism? Isn’t Molag Bal the one who created vamps in the first place? There’s a chance I’m misremembering, but I don’t think so.

There’s no record of the other Displaced who came before me, except for Una’s memory, and her descriptions were vague at best. All human, duh, of various sex, race, and age. Ya don’t say.

Una started working with her mother about fifteen years ago and the frequency of newcomers started to increase around the same time. Some of the older, superstitious staff tried to blame Una for it even. She was treated like a pariah for a long time and she’s still deeply bitter about it.

Erdi started asking her own questions about what I remember from my emergence. Did I see any ghosts? Where was I before? And so on. Una looked like she was going to smack the girl, saying that they don’t talk about it for a reason.

“Bad things happen to curious people.” She scolded.

I would have argued with her, vehemently, if not for the absolute terror in her eyes. It was clear then that Erdi shut down and while Una has probably seen way more than she was willing to say I wasn’t going to get anything more out of her.

I decided to hang out and wait for Court to adjourn. Once the novelty of my appearance wore off, I was pretty much ignored by the throng of servants working to get the midday meal ready. I should have gone back to the college then, but I wanted to be there when Olfina finished her appeal. The kitchens, storerooms, pantries, and larders in the palace are an extensive honeycomb of rooms bustling with people, so I figured it was safe enough. I sat quietly in a backroom nook away from the chaos, mulling things over.

A thrum of magic sounded from somewhere to my right. It only took a few seconds for my whole body to go completely rigid, I couldn’t stop myself from slowly sliding off my seat to the ground. I felt gloved hands on me, but I couldn’t move my head to see who it was.

Another spell rang out, hitting me in waves. I’m not adept enough to identify the spell, but it felt familiar. Maybe invisibility, that would make sense, because even with the black hood they put over my head I could hear the chorus of the servants from the kitchen, doors opening, I could feel the breeze outside. I was being carried out into the city, so either they were using a super-secret route that bypasses all the public walkways, or we were invisible. And I couldn’t do a damn thing.

I think there were two of them. One hauled me over their shoulder in a fireman’s carry, but I’m sure I heard two sets of footsteps. The bag over my head smelled like gingivitis and old blood. It was probably better than the smell of whatever sewer they used to get me out of Solitude, though. There was an echoey squelching sound of boots trudging through watery muck. The one trailing behind made a gagging noise.

When I started to twitch, they stopped just long enough to bind my hands and feet, but that didn’t stop me from struggling as my muscles started to obey again. It seemed to surprise them that the paralyze spell wore off so fast. In movies people smack the victim in the back of the head to get them to pass out. This dick licker put me in a sleeper hold. Woke up with a sore throat, outrageous headache, and a tight pain in my left eye that I think might have been a burst vessel.

Pain and disorientation gave way to the awful realization that I’d been gagged at some point. The hood was still over my face and I couldn’t make out any light sources through the cloth.

I won’t pretend that I wasn’t scared shitless. Fortunately, in a way, my abductors were in no rush. That afforded me time to calm down and assess the situation. I was laying in straw, probably old straw judging by the dusty consistency, with my hands bound with the same rope that held my ankles, so I was in a sort of forced fetal position. That meant I couldn’t cast either, not without hurting myself. The room was relatively quiet. Now and then I caught the sound of wood floors creaking from somewhere above me.

For all of three seconds I blamed myself. Kidnap me once, shame on you, kidnap me twice shame on me. But no, this wasn’t like before. I just happened to be in Ulfric Stormcloak’s path when he grabbed me. This was deliberate. Someone had to have been watching me, following me. And they got me in the palace, surrounded by people! That pointed to a certain level of professionalism, people with no fear of getting caught either by virtue of skill, or legal immunity. Like the Thalmor.

My suspicions were confirmed when the hood was finally yanked off. A very bored looking Justiciar bent down, grabbed my chin, and examined my face. What he saw made his long, golden nose screw up in distaste.

“It hardly seems worth the effort.” He drawled. That’s when I realized he wasn’t alone. Another Altmer stood on the other side of my cell bars, glancing over a stack of papers in her hands.

“Just get on with it, Rulindil.” She said without looking up. I recognized her as Elenwen from the emo eye make up and dark purple blush she used to accentuate the hollows of her cheeks.

Rulindil removed the bit of rope tying my hands so he could haul me up and put my wrists in rusty cuffs bolted to the wall. I’ll admit to having a fleeting moment of satisfaction as he grunted and struggled with my dead weight. DB is THICC. I hope he strained his back.

When the gag was removed, I thought about Shouting him away from me and making a break for it, but if I’d tried it Elenwen would have incapacitated me before I could get out of the cell. Instead, I tried to situate my legs in a comfortable-ish position and waited. The thought had occurred to me while I was still in the dark that the necromancer group, maybe even Calixto, had caught up with me. Faced with elf-supremacists I was torn over which would have been worse. Calixto is crazy, but he has a singular, morbid goal. With the Thalmor I just couldn’t figure out exactly what they could want except to know more about my connection to the Gray-Manes, that is until Elenwen finally lowered her papers and pulled a small, familiar object out of her pocket. Bitch had my grandad’s lighter!

I lost three days of my life to torture and interrogation.

At first, they concentrated on the lighter, where it came from, how I had come to possess it, who had made it, etc. I stuck with a mostly true story. My grandfather gifted it to me when I was eighteen. I don’t know who made it exactly. We lived in Betony, but he’d been a soldier and picked it up on his travels before I was born. All true, just replace _Betony_ with _Illinois_. She didn’t need to know that he’d had it since Vietnam or that the figure etched into the side was the Marlboro Man. I explained how to refuel it (leaving out safety tips in the hope that they would burn themselves).

When they were done with that Rulindil pulled my backpack out of a trunk (who THE FUCK ratted me out??) and they began grilling me on every single item in it, down to the multi-colored Post-Its and elastic hair ties. Though Elenwen was very good about keeping her questions laser focused her torturer was less subtle. They thought I was a spy; they just couldn’t figure out whose.

I got a small electric shock for every answer they didn’t like. My notebook and novels they saved for last and it was clear those were what Elenwen was most interested in. She wanted to know what the script was and a detailed translation of everything. I flat out refused. That earned me a much more powerful shock. It went from a quick little static zap to what I imagine being tasered is like. Un-fucking-pleasant.

I knew that there was no way they’d accept the same Betony story for everything. Only a complete idiot would believe that a backwards farming community on an island once occupied by Orcs could manufacture ball point pens and perfectly shaped paper clips. Telling the whole truth was never on the table, though. If the Dominion knew about the Displaced, they would be targeted. I won’t allow that. I can’t.

I recited a detailed synopsis of the plot of Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, and Agnes Grey. I had to, I had to say _something_. I would _not_ translate my journal entries. Talking about the books kept my tongue wagging, which somewhat satisfied the urge of my lizard brain to say anything to make the pain stop, but it also frustrated Rulindil, who looked like he very much wanted to commence with the real torture. I could see his toys on full display around the room through my cell bars. They had set up a table full of tools next to a rack. What looked like a crude Iron Maiden stood in a corner with its doors wide open so the spikes and manacles inside were visible from almost every angle. All intentional scare tactics of course.

Elenwen eventually left with an order to be informed when I broke, like it was an inevitability. After that Rulindil produced a set of thin skewers from a shiny case inside his robes. He started with my feet. As I squatted there screaming in that cell with my arms shackled over my head and bits of wood splintering under my toenails, I felt my dragons stir for the first time since I took their souls.

Mirmulnir, Sahloknir, and Sindugavonkrah woke up almost simultaneously. They were angry. They were insulted on my behalf, I could feel indignance, pride, a rising sense of icy resolve.

_Dragons do not submit. Submission is for joore._

They helped me endure it, to sort of zone out, concentrate on them instead of the pain. I could _hear_ them if I blocked out everything else. I was still in control, they were…in the background, whispering.

_We will bide our time. We will lull the enemy, then we shall strike._

I lost track of how many times I passed out, only to be roused by either a bucket of water to the face or the smell of food kept just out of reach. They dragged a skinny blonde man in soiled trousers from another room and shackled him up in the cell next to mine. He was just a kid. Rulindil started working him hard. He didn’t even ask questions, just kept beating and then healing the man over and over. The kid just kept blubbering that he didn’t know anything! It was to get a rise out of me, because Rulindil wasn’t getting the responses he wanted. The bastard kept looking over at me as I watched, and I’m sure I did look horrified.

Time is hard to track, especially in a windowless dungeon. Guards rotated in and out, but they all looked so similar I couldn’t tell how many there were for sure. At least four, I guessed. I only know three days passed in retrospect.

Rulindil would come and go randomly. That last day I thought I saw bags under his eyes and wrinkles in his robes, like an insomniac who forgot to change out of his day clothes. After a while he took a break from pressing hot coals into the boy’s palms, yawned as if the whole exercise had been quite tiresome indeed, and climbed the stairs, leaving a single guard.

Another guard briefly stepped out of the doorway on the landing, stood there for a while, then left again. I listened for the clunk of boots on wood. Thalmor suck at stealth. I thought I heard a dog or wolf howling. Night noises. The second guard did not come back.

When I was sure it was clear I quietly annunciated _FEIM ZI GRON_ to become ethereal. And here I thought it would never have a practical use! My hands slowly phased through the metal bindings as I pulled them forward. They were numb and discolored when they eventually came loose. Maybe the Shout increases the amount of space between molecules, that might explain the staticky, barely held together feeling.

With that done I sent the biggest gout of fire I could straight up. Like I said, the ceiling was wood. Sparks caught at cobwebs and the beam above me turned black and started to smolder. It got the guard’s attention. He irritably stomped to the cell, raising his hands to cast through the bars and opening his mouth to sound the alarm at the same time.

He managed a single syllable _Ahh_ before I Shouted _IIZ SLEN NUS_ and froze his ass solid. That was satisfying.

I’m not sure if it killed him or not. Maybe. I was in too much of a rush to check his pulse. He fell almost out of reach and it took some shoulder-popping contortion to pull him close enough to swipe the keys off his belt. I took his boots and dagger, locked him in the cell, then freed the other prisoner and gathered up my stuff. No way was I leaving anything behind. While rummaging I also found a pile of papers and dossiers in the desk drawer. Those I shoved in my bag without reading, there was no time.

The kid, Etienne, was in bad shape. He could barely walk. Rulindil had left half his face so black and swollen he couldn’t even see out of his right eye. Still, he managed to haul himself up, murmuring thanks as he clutched my shoulder, and we made our way to the body dump. The pit below the trap door stank of decay and the ladder was slimy. I risked a small flame, so we didn’t plummet off the rock ledge, which had a good eight to ten-foot drop from what I could tell. Etienne rummaged through the bones and garbage around us for anything useful. The boots I stole were too big for me, but he refused to take them. Instead, he pulled black robes off a desiccated corpse laying near the edge of the drop, ripped the hem into strips and used them to wrap his bare feet. Despite the smell and the dusty bits of rotten skin clinging to it he pulled the sleeves on and tied the cloth around his otherwise bare chest. Dude’s not squeamish.

We only found enough sturdy-ish cloth to tie into about a four-foot-long rope. Etienne knotted it around the bottom rung of the ladder and immediately swung down into the dark. He dropped with a grunt and a dull _splop_ sound. It surprised me that he didn’t take off after that.

“It’s disgusting, but you won’t hurt yourself. Come on!” he whispered impatiently.

Adrenaline overrode my fear of falling and I followed him. The bottom was littered with garbage, bones, and layers upon layers of shit. Not sewage, not run-off, _shit_.

(The Shawshank Reclamation. Cool Hand Duke. Escape From Altmertraz! Poopillon. Oh Brother, Where Shart Thou? Puns are fun. If I don’t turn something about this into a joke it’ll get way too heavy for me to deal with.)

If not for those ridiculous golden boots I’m sure I would have contracted a staph infection. I was worried about Etienne, but we couldn’t stop to heal him until we got the hell out of there. 

We groped our way up out of the muck, passed the cave troll sleeping in a heap to one side. Etienne is very stealthy and I’m not half bad. It took longer than I would have liked to find the cave exit, but when we did it was fucking glorious! Still dark, probably very early in the morning, moonless, cold, and clear. Neither of us was interested in getting caught on the road. We followed the salty smell of the seashore, trudging through the snow, trying to cover as much ground as possible before the manhunt started.

Solitude wasn’t safe. Heading west also wasn’t an option, that would bring us further into territory where the Thalmor patrol regularly. We scoured the shore until we found a leaky canoe and made do with pine branches for oars. It was incredibly cold, slow, and nerve wracking staying on the north side of the many islets. Etienne desperately bailed the boat til his hands were frostbitten. He wouldn’t stop until the outline of Solitude disappeared completely. Around dawn when it was light enough that I could see just how much water was in the boat, we were about a centimeter away from going down, I made the executive decision to steer us to shore. It was already cold as ever-loving hell, being wet on top of that would have killed us both.

A wrecked ship propped up on the rocks caught our attention. We pulled the canoe out of the water so we could hide it out of view and trudged toward it. The word _Brinehammer_ was etched on the side, just barely visible under layers of lichen and barnacles. It was infested with mudcrabs, which are a lot harder to kill with just a dagger, but we managed. I’ve said I’m not a fan of mudcrab, but after three days of starvation that briny leg meat with raw clams and snowberries was amazing! We risked a fire to cook and melt snow with. I also couldn’t take my own stink a moment longer and furiously scrubbed with sand and salt water til I felt at least relatively clean. Etienne was my look out, then we switched.

While we sat drying off by the fire, I did my best to try to heal his hands and face, but there were several fractures I couldn’t completely mend. His nose will never be straight again. While I worked, he turned and spat a tooth out. He kept apologizing and staring.

I moved on to healing my very swollen feet and asked him what his problem was.

“You used a thu’um, didn’t you?” he asked. “Like Ulfric Stormcloak.”

Oh. I should have realized before that he was scared of me, probably only stuck around because he was injured and didn’t know what else to do. It didn’t seem prudent to tell someone I’m pretty sure has ties to the thieves’ guild my whole story, so I just told him that I trained with the Greybeards for a while. He sat there prodding his tongue at the bloody gap in his gums, seemingly lost in thought before asking why the Thalmor were interested in my stuff and not my ability to thu’um.

I tried to laugh it off by saying they didn’t know of course. The guard looked pretty surprised, eh?

“Anyway, what about you?” I deflected. “Why would they drag you all the way from Riften? Seems like overkill.”

He gave me a funny look. “How’d you know I’m from Riften?”

Shit. Fix it! Fix it! Fix it! “Guessed by your accent.” I said, hoping it sounded authentically innocent.

Etienne shrugged. “The Thalmor aren’t exactly beloved in Skyrim. No one would have given them a place to conduct the sort of business they had with me, or you, in Riften. It’s a shady town sure, but even Maven Blackbriar won’t cater to their kind.”

“What did they want?” I asked, then quickly corrected when his eyes narrowed, “You don’t have to tell me a thing! Just curious.”

His hand went up to the side of his face I’d tried to heal, touching the yellow-green bruises around his eye with his fingertips. “All I know is that old Esbern disappeared from the warrens a few weeks ago. Left his door wide open. The other beggars cleared out what he left. No one saw where he went, least of all me, but the Justiciar didn’t believe me.”

That got him talking all about Riften, which I encouraged. It distracted him from asking me more personal questions. It’s funny, for a hotbed of crime and debauchery people have a lot of good things to say about Riften. Filthy, but fun. Bustling and prosperous, but you might also lose your shirt. Like Vegas in the 60’s.

While we rummaged through the ship for anything useful, we debated whether it was safer to continue together or separate. I wanted to go back to Morthal, where I have allies and a place to hide out, but I wasn’t sure if whoever sold me out knows about my ties there. The last thing I want is to put Idgrod in an awkward position. Being a jarl doesn’t mean she can’t be accused of Concordant violations or harboring a fugitive. Etienne wants to get back to Riften but doing it on foot will be slow and dangerous. We decided to stick together for now and head east to Dawnstar. It’s really the perfect the place to hide out from the Thalmor. The jarl is an unapologetic Stormcloak supporter, and it’s a port so people are always coming and going.

There was surprisingly little in the ship to scavenge. It had probably been picked clean long before we got there. I did find a trunk with someone’s winter wardrobe shoved in a sack, some cookware, and a couple pairs of leather boots. We burned our clothes in celebration. I’ll take an oversized tunic perfumed with the smell of mildewy bilge over troll feces any day.

Etienne and I walked into town at different times, so it wouldn’t look like we had arrived together. I hocked our salvage plus the stolen elven boots for fifteen gold so we could get a room.

So yeah, I’m shacked up with a strange man, but it’s not as weird as it sounds. More like sharing a room with my little brother, really. It took all night traveling by slivers of double moon light (which still creeps me out) and most of the morning to get here. Etienne signed on to work in the silver mine. It’s hard work, he needs healing every evening, but it’s not like there are a lot of jobs to choose from. I spent the first day wandering from shop to shop only to realize pretty quickly that the only skill set I have is the ability to read and write. Half the population of this backwards Hold can’t even spell their own names. So, that’s what I’ve been doing, writing and reading letters for money. I also sent out my own correspondence, cautiously. Tony got a letter in English explaining the fuckery that has befallen me. I also wrote to Lami under the name Alva Wintergreen, in the hopes that no one will intercept it, and that too was just a quick rundown of things, with the exception of my current location. She’ll tell Idgrod what’s going on. I won’t risk writing to Solitude or Whiterun yet, not until I know more about who turned me in, and why, and what the outcome of the Gray-Mane appeal was.

I’ve had a chance to go over the papers and reports I stole from Rulindil’s desk. The dossiers on Ulfric Stormcloak, Delphine, and Esbern are just more detailed versions of what we got in the game. That’s excellent, I can use them as leverage if necessary. Less great is that there’s one on me. It’s thin, but the fact that it exists and Elenwen probably has another copy is unnerving as hell. It doesn’t say who turned in my stuff, only that an “informant” brought the possibility of a foreign agent in Solitude to the Thalmor’s attention nine months ago, so shortly after I arrived. At the time the matter was classified as low priority. Elenwen’s note reads: “Agent instructed to observe and report any suspicious activity, per usual procedure.”

My kidnapping was noted, then my reappearance in Whiterun. Based on the smattering of reports the Thalmor seem to think I’m trying to run some sort of scam by pretending to be Dragonborn in order to “sow chaos for the benefit of an as yet unknown group, political power, or entity.”

“Subject has been seen in the company of Delphine, known Blades member and person of interest.”

Well shit. Suddenly Del’s paranoia seems slightly more reasonable. This still begs the question: who the hell reported me in the first place? It had to have been someone at the college. Either someone I know, or someone who has access to the building and found my stash. My bag was still there when I checked it, but Elenwen probably already had my lighter. So, the rat bastard, cock-sucking son of a shit turned in the rest of my stuff while I was out with Viarmo, Olfina, and Thane Bryling. My first suspect would be Aia, but she’s in Falkreath. Isn’t she? What if Ildi was wrong? I just can’t think of anyone else who would turn on me like that. Bendt would never. Not in a thousand years. Lisette was working at the Skeever, Jorn is marching with the army. I suppose it’s possible one of the apprentices or even a teacher is a Thalmor agent, Alda did say that bards are known for making good spies. But who?

There’s no mention of Idgrod or my time in Morthal in the reports, but my connection to the Gray-Mane family was noted in a perfunctory way:

“Subject may be attempting to curry favor with locals by inciting unrest. Until the motive behind these actions is made clear treat subject as an unknown.”

“Abduction by Ulfric Stormcloak, jarl of Windhelm, may have been staged.”

I laughed so hard when I read that. Based on what evidence, you morons? The Thalmor seem to think that everyone is just as devious and underhanded as they are. That’s good, I might be able to exploit that. Misdirection seems like a viable option. It’s too late to stay anonymous, but maybe I can drop a few breadcrumbs, distract them with this idea that I’m part of a bigger conspiracy while I conduct my real business. One complication that may arise though is that if the guard I froze didn’t die, he’ll not only tell his superiors that I’m a mage, but that I can Shout.

I wish I could talk to Paarthurnax. When he said I am as I’m supposed to be, I took it as an empty platitude, but now it really does seem like me not looking like a DB is doing more to keep me alive than I thought. Even if the Thalmor believe the Dragonborn legend is a bunch of bullshit their Nord spies might have taken the reports from Whiterun more seriously if I looked the part. I don’t really want to think about what they would have done to me if they knew and believed I’m the DB. If I were them, I would try to get that person on my side. That would do a lot to demoralize the enemy, turn-coating one of their cultural icons. If that didn’t work, and I was evil, I’d find a way to shame and disgrace that person before making sure they came to an untimely demise. All bad, very no.

My dragons are still awake but settled. Like a panel of judges sitting in the back of my head, right next to my conscience and the disappointed voice of my mother. As long as I stay in control I don’t really mind. I murdered them, the least I can do is be a good host, ya know? I wonder if it works on the same principle as soul gems, where I’m the gem. Meat gem. Fleshy, squishy soul holder. Eh. Brain hurts, so tired, gotta wrap this up. I’m going to bed, Etienne already crashed on the floor, but he’s taken all the pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap you guys...102 kudos! Thank you!!


	38. Nightmares

Dawnstar

Loredas, 24th of Frost Fall 4E201

Gotta love waking up to nightmares. If it wasn’t me bolting upright out of bed it was Etienne moaning in his sleep on the floor the last three nights. He left yesterday, and it’s so much worse alone.

I can’t stay here. Dawnstar may be relatively safe but I’m running out of money. What I can scrape together doing chores and reading letters to bumpkins is just barely enough to pay for a room. Living on table scraps is not a long-term solution. Mining isn’t going to work, even if I had the upper body strength the foremans won’t give me a chance. 

It’s infuriating how slow news travels! All I’ve been able to glean from sailor gossip, which is the best gossip, is that Thane Bryling kicked up a fuss over the disappearance of a servant while at the Blue Palace. Ugh. I’m grateful for the concern, but jeez they might as well say “The help has gone missing! Most inconvenient!”

I can’t get too butthurt about it really. I wanted to be “normal.” They only know me in Solitude as a former member of the college staff and that’s it.

There’s zero talk about a jail break, but I sort of expected that. I’m about 98% sure that the fact that the Thalmor have a dungeon at the embassy isn’t supposed to be common knowledge and even if it was, I just don’t see them publicly admitting that they lost two whole prisoners. Either way I’m not going back to Solitude any time soon. Winterhold is also off the table right now, because as far as I know the Thalmor still have agents lurking around the Mage’s College. Windhelm might arguably be the safest city for anyone trying to avoid the Thalmor, but it’s also a longer journey and I’d have the same money problem. That leaves Morthal or Whiterun.

Morthal wins by virtue of being closer and having my own place to crash once I get there. That’s assuming the whole town isn’t swarming with Thalmor. Do they have the manpower to swarm? I really have no way of knowing. I hope not, but like Grandpa Jay used to say “Hope in one hand, crap in the other. See which one fills up first.” Dammit I miss him. It really bothers me that his lighter is still at the embassy.

I gave Etienne the elven dagger I took off the guard when he left. On foot it will take him more than a week to get to Riften, so he needed it. I’m going to have to rely on thu’ums and magic to keep my ass out of trouble. Also stashed my old pocketknife and Mace in my ratty ass coat. Cat’s out of the bag at this point anyway, I’m not about to get caught unprepared. Some of the female minors still talk about several women who disappeared after dark a few months ago. They walk together in packs with their pickaxes and rock hammers on display. Just one more reason I need to leave. That and I’m _hungry_.

The weather is cold, but the sailors all agree that there shouldn’t be any winter storms the next few days. I’m going to grind today, make as much money as I can, then set off tomorrow.

Dawnstar

Sundas, 25th of Frost Fall 4E201

I got back to the inn well after dark last night after mucking horse stalls for the garrison. They paid a measly five gold. I was going to ask the innkeeper if I could work off the rest.

The place was packed with droopy-eyed, irritated locals complaining about nightmares. I’ve been so preoccupied with dealing with my own that I forgot this was a plot point. I might not have put two and two together if not for the dark elf making what I’m sure he thought were subtle rounds from table to table dropping hints about being able to stop the nightmares if only someone would help. The priest robes did nothing to ingratiate him with the surly minors and sailors so sleep-deprived one poor kid fell face first into his soup. They were all too tired to even chuckle. An Argonian with grey and white feathers sticking out of his head yanked the boy up before he drowned and hiss-growled the elf away from their table. It was like the sound an alligator makes when it’s ticked off. Neat. And scary.

Thoring scowled at me when I asked if he had work and said if I couldn’t pay hard cash I could get out. So, with six gold on me and nothing left to hock except the clothes on my back I had to decide: sleep in the stables or kick my sorry butt into gear and start acting like a goddamn dragonborn.

The elf, Erandur, looked perplexed when I approached him. This is my life now. Look me up and down, skeptical eyebrows, yada yada. He only accepted my help because literally no one else in town was going to volunteer. He was also very confused as to why I wanted to go up to Nightcaller Temple right then, in the dark, through the snow, until I emerged from the room I’d been kicked out of with all my worldly goods strapped to my back. Understanding and pity dawned on his face. Homelessness notwithstanding, I could do without the pity.

Erandur pulled a torch and pack from a storage barrel at the back of the inn and lead the way. It wasn’t a short walk. We trudged through about six inches of snow long enough for me to wonder if I was going to lose a toe. I was woefully underdressed for the windchill coming off the sea, but there was nothing I could do about it. I kept my hands in my armpits and my head down the whole way. Almost bumped into the priest’s back when he stopped at the door, where I noticed a few bulgy, multi-legged lumps covered in snow outside the entrance. Erandur said he’d been squatting there for a while. When he arrived in Dawnstar his initial plan had been to cleanse the temple himself, but he soon realized it was going to be more than he could handle alone.

There was a brazier and some old benches to burn, so we took some time to thaw in the entryway before he magicked the statue so we could get in.

There was no sleeping in the tower. I could actually feel the nightmares pressing in, like pressure behind my eyes. Erandur felt it too. We rested for a little while, talked strategy and what to expect inside, but didn’t sleep.

I remembered there was a Daedra involved with this side quest, but the details escaped me. Fortunately, the notes I made all those months ago when I first arrived are back in my possession. There isn’t a lot to go on but it’s better than nothing:

“Tower near Dawnstar- evil dream skull- don’t kill the elf!”

Okay then, past self, I’m trusting you on this one. Erandur’s cagey and a little too fixated on Mara, almost to the point of absurdity. Like he thinks if he says how devoted he is to her often enough it’ll make it true. I never got a villainous vibe from him, but he’s definitely lying, mostly to himself I think.

The whole point of this side quest was money. I wish I could pretend that it was more noble than that, take the humanitarian credit for saving the people of Dawnstar from nightmares and all that, but really it’s money. I’ve been homeless and destitute before and it blows.

In my sleep-deprived little head, I thought I remembered it being a fairly easy mission. Barbas’ reassurance that Daedra can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do also helped bolster my confidence a bit, until Erandur recounted the reason the residents of the temple were all asleep. When it hit me that we would have to fight and kill living people I felt my stomach drop. He must have noticed me go green as we stood there on the landing looking down at the swirl of magic around the Skull below.

Erandur pulled a small bottle and a bit of hard tack from his pack. There was that look of pity again. He called the stuff in the bottle a restorative, but it just tasted like floral sugar water. I knew it would make me crash later, but it was either that or gnaw on the moss hanging from the ceiling. The moss would have been easier on my teeth than the tack at least. Almost a year of brushing with little bits of fabric on sticks and rinsing with alcohol when I can get it hasn’t been great for my oral hygiene.

When I was done, I pulled a rust-spotted mace off a wrack in the hall. I figured it was the closest thing to the short axe I’m used to.

The miasma may have kept the residents of the temple in stasis for years, but the building around them was slowly falling apart. The fire in the library spread a fine sheen of soot all over everything, which in turn had absorbed all the ambient moisture so that every surface was covered in a fine, slick layer that made me lose my footing more than once.

We snuck under collapsed support beams and chunks of fallen masonry, avoiding the bodies on the floor. I thought I remembered them rising up like it was nothing and going right back to fighting in the game. In reality it was a slow process and probably agonizing based on the sounds they made. It smelled like every priest of Vaermina and Orc shat themselves in their sleep. God, what a horrible way to wake up!

It wasn’t until Erandur explained that we needed to find one of the cult’s books to make the torpor that I started to get nervous. In my head it was going to be like some sort of acid trip, where I was spirit walking in someone else’s body. I wasn’t looking forward to that.

An orc managed to pull himself up while I was digging around in the library. He swayed on his feet, threatening something unintelligible, or maybe it was just his native language, I’m not sure. I felt horrible for Shouting him off the landing, but in my defense, he was coming at me with a very big, rusty maul in his hands. The orc landed on a broken shelf, which splintered under his weight and startled a priestess laying on her stomach and moaning. Sparks flew from her fingertips in random directions as she sputtered into a pile of yellowed papers beneath her.

For a priest seeking redemption for abandoning his comrades Erandur embraced mercy killing pretty readily. Priest robes do not a saint make. As I peered down I got a clear view of him taking his dagger to the throat of every prostrate body below. Some jerked and twitched, some just lay there bleeding. I hope they didn’t feel much. When he was done he caught me peering through the clouds of burnt dust rising up between us.

“They’ve been locked in a never-ending nightmare for too long.” He explained sadly. “There’s no saving their minds.”

All I could do was nod. I noticed the Dreamstride out of the corner of my eye, balanced on a scorched podium. It seemed to glow blue and vibrated with malice. I didn’t like touching it and handed it over to Erandur as soon as I could get back down to the ground floor. He found the section in the book he needed readily enough, then we had to go find the temple alchemy lab. Trapsing through the halls and damp rooms wasn’t fun. Not that I thought that it would be. But holy crap murdering dozens of confused people felt shitty, like slaughtering a whole ward of coma patients who all woke up at the same time. That’s just fucked up. 

A woman in the hall had fallen sitting against a moldy cabinet with a staff in her hand, so she was in the perfect position to shoot a fireball right at us the moment she opened her eyes. Erandur managed a ward, but my back was hit as I tried to turn away. Stop, drop, and roll. Thanks lame elementary school safety videos! I still have some hair but…well I’ll deal with that later. Erandur hit her with lightning, then finished her off with a quick stab between the ribs.

The torpor was…interesting. Drinking something with the consistency of rubber cement that’s been sitting in a bottle for decades isn’t a good idea generally. It didn’t feel like I had a choice though.

I remembered, eventually, that I’d be present in Erandur’s past self, but it didn’t really prepare me for the second-hand panic as I rushed through the same hallways we had just cleared. One minute I was him, absolutely terrified and racing to the miasma release, then I was me again standing in the same spot. That makes no sense. Really nothing about it does, like how do you know who in the past you’ll be piggy-backing? I can kind of see it as a spirit journey, where it’s all happening in your head, but I _moved_ physically. I was him, with full agency. I could feel the sweat dripping down his back, smell the ozone and blood from the pockets of fighting as I ran by. Did using the torpor create a wormhole that pulled me to the exact spot the Dreamstride stopped? Or teleport me somehow? Erandur said that I just disappeared and rematerialized on the other side of the barrier. His surprise that it worked was not reassuring. He kept side-stepping my questions too. 

I actually didn’t make it all the way to the release. It was close enough, but I’d almost venture that the potion ran out of steam prematurely. Maybe it was its age. Had to whirlwind sprint past an orc blindly charging at me. I need to use that Shout more often, it’s an effective way to breeze right out of danger for a few seconds. The orc got my mace to the back of the head. A spike lodged firmly into the soft spot where his neck began, but the wound didn’t start gushing until he gripped the handle and pulled. He howled in pain, still trying to advance as blood showered his shoulders and down his back. I heard the hefty smack of his body hitting the stones behind me as I ran.

Though I remembered how the quest went once we got there, mostly, I didn’t like how lucid the last two priests in the Skull chamber were. Erandur said everyone in the temple was mental and I was clinging to that idea so I could make it through, but there they stood very cogently calling him a spineless traitor. I followed my own notes and didn’t kill the elf, but I didn’t help much with the priests either. Just wards, let him get his redemption if it’s that important.

The Skull of Corruption was revolting. You just don’t see cyclops with quadrilateral jaws and goat horns these days. At least I hope not. If that thing originated from a real creature, I don’t ever want to see one in the flesh. Vaermina spoke directly into my head much like the Augur of Dunlain. But where his voice had been a gentle nudge hers was forceful and saccharin.

“He is deceiving you.” It said. “He will continue to deceive you if you let him live. Kill him, take the staff for yourself. It is the only way. You cannot hope to defend yourself in this world without the power of the Daedra. Embrace it and this world will kneel before you.”

I don’t remember if it was the same as the game, I think not, but I just can’t trust my memory at this point.

When it was over the room fell silent. Nothing about it felt like a victory. I was just left numb, but that’s better than falling apart I suppose. A tower full of dead people is a less than great place to have an emotional melt down.

Erandur too didn’t look relieved. I commenced my looting, since that was the main reason I agreed to help him in the first place. Exchanged the mace for a short, well-balanced Dwarven axe. It’s nicer than my old one. The major finds were in the priest’s dormitory where the chests with all their personal things were. The driest ones still had some robes in good shape, and despite the cult affiliation I really like the purple color.

Total take: 122 septims, 3 silver rings, 2 gold wedding bands (probably enchanted, not sure yet), leather alchemy gloves, purple robes, white shift, wool stockings, underwear (I’ve gone commando long enough, don’t judge me!), breast band, Song of the Alchemists (I think Lami was asking for a copy?), glass dagger, and a handful of possibly out of date potions.

Erandur offered his services as a follower, but the pity was still there as he watched me ransack his former friend’s trunks for fresh underpants. I told him he shouldn’t feel obligated, he should do what’s best for him. That actually got a laugh out of him.

“I’ve done what’s best for me for the past thirty years. I thought I was ready to come back here and face everything I tried to turn away from. Mara help me, if you hadn’t been here I would never have gotten through this.” He said.

“Because the torpor only works for the unaffiliated?” I probed.

Erandur blanched and turned his eyes down. “I um…may have exaggerated…”

“You didn’t want to go back there. I understand. I felt your fear.” A thought occurred to me then. “You can make it up by teaching me how to make the torpor myself.”

He started sputtering that that would be dangerous, and the knowledge must not fall into the wrong hands, the torpor is something the cult of Vaermina kept for centuries, and so on.

I was packing up the loot and held up the glowy blue book. Once the Skull was destroyed it stopped feeling evil. “We just wiped out the cult of Vaermina. You’re not an acolyte and neither am I, but that doesn’t mean that we should let all their alchemy knowledge die out.”

Erandur took the book, running a hand across the embossed cover. He handed it back to me with a nod. “I suppose not. I’ve given up that life though. You’ll be selective about who you show it to?”

I agreed, pulled my pack on, and heard my stomach grumble loudly as I stood. Aside from the snack he’d given me when we arrived, I hadn’t had a meal in two days.

My Kingdom for a Polaroid! Thoring’s face when I came back this morning was almost worth the guilt tidal wave that came later. Erandur wouldn’t take any of the credit for stopping the nightmares. I’m sure he thought he was being humble, giving me all the glory, but I don’t need the notoriety.

I would have liked to sleep the day away at the inn, but no one was going to leave me alone long enough for that. After a heavy breakfast we hopped the stage to Morthal.

We did a good thing. I know that destroying the Skull was good, and that we helped a whole community…but it did nothing to stop _my_ nightmares. I slept for a while in the back of the wagon, which is more of a testament to how tired I am than the quality of the ride. Erandur sat up on the seat and made small talk with the driver. 

I don’t remember my dreams normally. Now they’re hyper focused images of golden-skinned Justiciars shooting lightning from their fingertips, and mages with blood-shot eyes all coming at me like a zombie hoard. This shit is going to linger. Just have to make it to Morthal, and if the coast is clear, get to my place so I can have a proper breakdown.


	39. I Need Therapy

Morthal

Fredas 30th of Frost Fall 4E201

Another recap. I needed a mental health day. Week. It’s almost been a week. And I think tomorrow is Halloween? If time is the same, and it might not be, then Frost Fall is their October.

On the wagon ride from Dawnstar I slept off and on, which didn’t really make me feel rested, I just kept waking up with a progressively worse crick in my neck. With the driver and Erandur chatting away about old men things I had plenty of time to appreciate the landscape and zone out for a while. No plotting. No worrying. I felt like Vaermina sucked my brain juices dry and the nightmares I’d had initially were the last bit leaking out. Ew. Leave it to me to come up with the grossest metaphor possible. 

My comfortable numbness was shattered by a Thalmor sighting. As the wagon passed, I could hear Altermi accents cursing the slush on the side of the road and felt every muscle in my body clench in fear. I pulled the musty purple hood of my robes low and tried to smush myself between the two flour sacks I’d been propping up against. Bless the weird ass bio-chemical magical whatsit that makes me go invisible when I’m scared. The ornately clad soldiers and their sour faced Justiciar just kept walking, goosestepping to clear the snow drifts, expressions full of unfocused disdain. I flipped them the bird. It was a pointless, immature thing to do, but hey it made me feel better.

Erandur wasn’t phased when the wagon finally stopped, and he noticed I wasn’t in the back. He cast what I’m pretty sure was Detect Life, shrugged in my general direction, and walked off toward the center of town. I followed, glancing in all directions for flashes of gold.

A group of mud-spattered children scurried past us after a plump Skeever at the end of a tether. Looking around like he was tying to get his bearings Erandur asked, “Are you hiding from anyone in particular, or...?”

“Yes and no.”

“Right. Well, I don’t know Morthal. Where to?”

I nudged him towards my house, not knowing what to expect. Walking slowly, I realized I was sneaking along heal to toe, stalking. From the outside it looked normal, same weathered wood, bare porch, slightly crooked steps. What made me keep going until we were in front of Falion’s place were the deathbell and nightshade flowers out front. Something had knocked the snow off them.

Falion came to the door with a scowl. “What in Oblivion is it now? I have work to do!” he snapped.

“And I’m sure it’s very important.” I said from Erandur’s side. “But I’d love to know if any of your brother’s minions are in my house before I go in there.”

When he recognized my voice his expression didn’t change, but he did step aside so we could come in. “Still can’t get a grip on that spell, eh?”

“Shut up.” I grumbled.

Falion begrudgingly put his work aside long enough for brief introductions and to give me a Dawnguard update. He said Benor threw himself wholeheartedly into his new role and had been regularly sending a small stream of recruits through town on their way to Isran’s headquarters in the Rift. Lots of ex-bandits, deserters, people looking for something worthy to be part of outside the stalemated civil war. The last of them left that morning.

“The jarl will want to talk to you.” Falion smirked in the direction of the overstuffed chair I’d claimed. “There have been more Thalmor passing through the last week or so, asking questions. Something upset the hive.”

I groaned and rubbed my invisible hand across my face. “Are you enjoying this?”

He shrugged. “The first Justiciar waltzed into town expecting us all to lick his boots. It was refreshing to see the community come together against someone other than me.”

My laugh mixed with his dry chuckle, leaving poor Erandur sitting back with his tea probably feeling like a third wheel.

Falion sent a message to Idgrod and loaned me a lock pick, since my key was in the pack I’d left at the college. I couldn’t help the disgusted noise I made when the door swung open. Those Dawnguard recruits are complete slobs! Empty ale bottles littered the floor, which was stamped with muddy boot prints, they’d left half eaten food on every horizontal surface and the beds were a tangle of dank stains. Good God, it was like walking into my first apartment after the roommates split. Except there was no dead guinea pig in the toilet. I checked all the chamber pots to be sure.

Erandur surveyed the scene placidly as I swept bottles up into a basket, mumbling obscenities. Some people can sleep surrounded by garbage. I am not one of those people.

I’d finished tossing rock-hard chunks of bread into the fire and was about to tackle the problem of how to get melted cheese out of a bedspread when someone knocked on the door. Erandur answered before I could say anything. It was little Agni, Falion’s…apprentice? Ward? I’m not sure what the proper nomenclature is now that I think about it. She didn’t bother to ask where I was. Falion probably told her about my invisibility…problem. Ugh. All she did was announce to the room behind Erandur, where I had frozen holding up a corner of the bedding, that the jarl wanted to see me and it had to be “right now, or it won’t work.”

Idgrod does love being mysterious. I asked Erandur to stay put while I slunk off to the long house. And there, standing before Idgrod in all his haughty glory was the Justiciar we’d passed on the road.

It was a little thrilling sneaking up, listening to my friend politely destroy the elf with protocol. The gist of the conversation, without all the flowery bullshit, was that the Thalmor wanted to know if I’d been seen in Morthal. No, I had not. The Thalmor wanted to know if the jarl was aware that I was a criminal and a traitor. No, she was not. From his tone they’d done this song and dance before. He tried laying out the Concordant violations I was accused of. Idgrod countered his argument like a seasoned legal badass ‘til the Justiciar had been thoroughly dressed down for having no case. Tears streamed down my face from suppressing waves of laughter. The pointy eared jack-hole eventually ran out of steam and dismissed himself.

Idgrod rose as soon as the Justiciar left, told her steward not to disturb her, and retreated to her private chambers, holding the door open long enough for me and Idgie to slip in after her.

I just about died. Idgie snickered demurely while her mother poured herself a glass of wine.

“I’m glad you both find this so amusing.” She deadpanned, “These insufferable henchmen are determined to bore me into an early grave.”

“I think you did fine.”

“High praise, _Dragonborn_. Now, talk.”

And talk I did. Talking led to hysterical laughter and more tears until I was emotionally exhausted and on my second glass of alto wine (which is just a red blend). In another life, on another plain of existence, Idgrod would have made a fantastic therapist. When I was done, she didn’t launch into a lecture. She kept her comments gentle, succinct, and irrefutable.

I’ve been avoiding dealing with my own displacement since I arrived, fixating on other problems so I don’t have to face my own. My PTSD over recent events just made it worse, which is probably why I was still invisible.

Hence, the mental health days. Because as always, she’s not wrong that I haven’t given myself permission to mourn my old life.

Modern conveniences and my single-minded degree focus be damned. I miss my mom and my sibs. I miss our four-way calls on Sunday mornings and how mom and Elize always gloated about how nice the weather in Arizona was while I was stuck in Chicago snow drifts. Ellis will have graduated from high school by now. He was so excited to study abroad. I can’t remember where, maybe Korea? Or Japan, one of those. Elize was talking about getting engaged to that poly-sci major she was seeing. And I regret cutting dad off. I should have reached out, made an effort. Now it’s too late. 

As much as I want to believe that somehow things will work out and I’ll get out of here…I might not. I might miss _everything_. And they’ll never know what happened to me, I’ll just be one of those people who disappeared off the face of the Earth. A black hole where a person used to be. A fucking statistic.

I was invisible for almost three days straight while I…processed. The mana drain made it feel like I had the flu on top of everything else.

But I’m all about those silver linings. For one thing, Erandur, who looked after me like a goddamn saint the whole time and makes a mean Skyrim monte christo (grilled cheese with thinly sliced smoked mammoth, dipped in egg and pan fried in butter. OMFG!) said that I must have exceptional mana endurance to hold the spell that long without tiring myself into a coma. So that’s cool.

And you know what? I’m good at this whole saving the world one side-mission at a time thing. The Gray-Mane brothers? Both alive and well. Mette and the Companions hit the prison disguised as Stormcloaks, which is fucking genius! Why hadn’t I thought of that? By the time word got back to Solitude Jarl Elisef had granted their pardon, only for the ambassador to have to admit through General Tullius that the prisoners were no longer in custody. Mmm, the salty-sweet taste of public embarrassment! The attempted cover-up was completely spoiled by other prisoners who’d been freed along with the brothers. I can’t really account for why someone who just got out of prison would go straight to the nearest watering hole, get shit-faced, and spill their whole story in front of a tavern full of people, including guards, but…well some people just aren’t that smart.

Thane Bryling is now firmly in the ally category. Olfina stayed with her after I vanished and helped with an inquiry. I’ve let them all know that I’m okay. Inquiry’s still on though, Bryling took the whole affair as an insult to the honor of the Court and lobbied Elisef hard to put more restrictions on Thalmor access to the Palace.

Does this mean that the Thalmor are royally pissed at me and my adapt-a-fam? Yep. But I’m over being worried about it.

Viarmo hasn’t written to me himself, but I got a second-hand account of the state of the college through Olfina and…he’s predictably not taking the situation very well. In a turn the place upside down, ban you from the bard’s guild (a thing) until the end of your days if I find out any of you had anything to do with this, kind of way. Very drama, much spectacle.

Initially their prime suspect was Wyndelius because he was nowhere to be found after I disappeared. He actually showed up on my doorstep with Barbas yesterday. It was Barbas who filled in the blanks on that day in Solitude for me. He’d been hanging out near the servant’s entrance and smelled my passing along with two Altmer. So, yeah not Wyn. Dark elves smell citrusy, he explained, where Altmer have more bitter, spicy notes to their BO. Humans smell gamey, except me and the “others” we smell like wet dirt with a hint of copper. TMI but whatever. He tracked me, but couldn’t get into the embassy, so he went looking for Wyn, who had been scouting caves on the coast.

Wyndelius massacred the Blackblood Marauders. For fun. And profit because holy crap he had _loot_ and a new pair of what I took to be alligator skin boots at first…yeah...I’m not gonna pry. I have enough to deal with. 

It’s good to have Barbas back. Fair or not he’s a favorite and I love the sound of his voice.

Finally got a letter from Tony, I was beginning to wonder if something had happened to him. Something kind of did, but at least he’s not dead! Win?

Mercer sent him on the Goldenglow mission. From his account it went really, really badly. The island was swarming with mercs. Tony had a fuck it moment and decided to torch half the estate, including all of the beehives, just to create a big enough distraction to get away. He did manage to get to the contents of the manor safe and hauled ass back to the guild. That of course wasn’t enough for them to let him go, Maven was royally pissed off about the hives. While Honningbrew isn’t competition (what with it being a smoldering pile of ashes and all) she can’t swoop in and take it over for resources either, so she’s out for blood. Karliah’s plan is probably still a go regardless. Now they have him going off to Solitude to chase down a lead on the “mysterious buyer.”

Christ on a cracker I really dropped the ball here. I let my only living Displaced ally walk right into a questline that could get him killed. I shouldn’t have let him go back to the guild in the first place. He needed to be warned about Mercer, warned about doing any more jobs for them. At the time I was just dealing with a lot and I forgot. I just fucking forgot!

It’s too late to get him to stop at Morthal on the way to Solitude, so I hired the courier Jonna uses to find him. Thirty septims. Better be worth it. The letter ended up being five pages long, detailing everything I can remember and why he needs to get the hell outta Dodge.

I want him to meet me here before he gets himself any deeper. Maybe if Mercer is left with no choice but to go face Karliah by himself her plan will work, and she can…force him to confess? At least I think that’s what she was planning to do? I know it had something to do with clearing her name.

Letting Tony become the de facto Dragonborn surrogate to the thieves guild quest line isn’t fair. He deserves to know what he’s really getting into. Frankly I would rather leave them to their own devices, but he should be making that call. He’s the one who has history with them. 

*****

I was feeling better today. More centered. Visible too, which improved my energy levels. Idgie lent me a small hand mirror, reluctantly, after I caught some curious looks at the tavern. Yeah, I’d forgotten about that fireball that caught me in the back at the temple. Half my hair was singed down almost to the scalp. It’s a rough look. Post-ice age medieval crackhead chic. There’s no fixing that much damage so I convinced Lami to shear it off. Never again will I joke about shaving my head and starting over when I’m having a bad hair day.

We were loitering in front of Lami’s shop, taking turns rubbing at the quarter inch of stubble left on my head, when Benor marched back into town. With a prisoner. Idgie saw him first, in Dawnguard gear crossing the bridge with a filthy mage chained up in front of him like Clark Griwald’s boss at the end of Christmas Vacation.

He catches my eye, smiles a big, yellow grin, and heads right for my house. Goddamn it.

As soon as I saw Benor I went to get Falion. Idgrod needs plausible deniability when it comes to Dawnguard related stuff, so I left her out of it. The mage was already chained to a chair in the basement when we got there. Without preamble Benor smacked his prisoner upside his ginger mohawk and started debriefing us all. This was the necromancer we’d missed at Rannveig’s Fast. The one who murdered, enslaved, and thralled probably dozens of people, whose letters had tipped me off to the modern Earth person hunting club in Tamriel. Just for that I owe Benor a beer.

Sild the Warlock is perhaps one of the nastiest human beings I’ve ever seen in person, who wasn’t also a shambling corpse anyway. He probably hasn’t seen a bar soap since the last lunar eclipse. His fingernails were solid black, with a putrid goop holding his hair in place, and dirt caked into every wrinkle and pore. Dude’s a walking Petri dish. As Benor talked his prisoner glared at us all with bloodshot eyes, straining to curse through his gag til the veins in his neck looked like they’d pop. 

The gag eventually came off and with it a new wave of stink came rolling into the room from his rotting teeth. Sild raved for a while. It reminded me a bit of how Calixto reacted when he was finally caught. He talked about how his work was transformative and couldn’t be stopped, how he and his “brethren” had made discoveries our tiny minds could never comprehend. The necromancer wasn’t giving us anything we didn’t already know. Benor was all for a little light torture and looked to Falion for permission. Falion deferred to me, pointedly calling me _Dragonborn_ so Benor would catch on to the hierarchy, whether I wanted it or not.

I was sorely tempted to take my frustrations out on Sild’s miserable ass. No one would have stopped me. My dragons stirred for just a moment at the thought.

I stood there thinking about every torture technique I’ve ever heard of. Water boarding, skin-flaying, electro-shock, playing The Macarena on repeat until the prisoner tries to swallow their own tongue. It’s easy to rationalize, I mean he _is_ a murderer and he’s helped capture and torture my own people. Hard not to take that personally.

Timing is a funny thing though. If they’d arrived only a few days earlier, I might have given in to the urge for revenge. Today I just felt…sad looking at him. Everything Rulindil did to me came rushing back. I pictured Etienne’s blackened, swollen face, the mutilated bodies in the pit we escaped through. I forced myself to recall the glint of glee in the elf’s eye when he finally got me to scream.

I won’t be that.

At the same time, I do really want Sild to sing like the tapeworm-infested canary he is.

After some thought I looked up at Falion and simply stated “He needs a bath.”

Benor looked confused, but Falion caught on. Is involuntary hygiene considered torture? You’d think it based on how Sild howled like the Wicked Witch of the West when soapy water touched his skin.

_I’m melting!!! Meeelllltttinnggggggggg!!!!_

Benor was less than pleased to be assigned that chore, but to his credit he didn’t complain in front of his prisoner. It’s not like we’re turning a high-powered hose on him (though that would be easier) and there is a brazier in the basement, so he’s not going to freeze. We did burn his clothes. I swear the colony of lice living in them screamed and popped as they went up.

I don’t really have a plan here. Kill ‘em with kindness, I guess? I’m not sure yet if he’s crazy or putting on a manic act. Sild was smart enough to use a booby trap to get his victims, but aside from that he hasn’t shown any other signs of being particularly clever or talented. All the shit he’s spewing might literally be him reciting what he’s heard others in his group say. Benor said that he tried to raise a few corpses against him at the ruin, but other than that he hadn’t managed any other spell, defensive or otherwise, to keep himself from being taken prisoner. One-trick pony. If we wear him down enough, I think he’ll give something away. I want to know who “M” is and I want locations on all his buddies.

We’ll see what the next few days hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a couple notes on this chapter: keep in mind that it was early 2020 when Ez was sent to Skyrim, so she doesn’t know about quarantine, or anything related to the events of that year…and I envy her that. Also yes I am absolutely implying that Wyndelius killed, skinned, and made a lovely pair of boots out of Jaree-Ra’s hide. Ez is conflicted about this, but I do not feel bad about it in the slightest and neither should you. Jaree-Ra is a garbage person.


End file.
